


Run Boy Run

by DarcyDelaney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blind Dean, Boston marathon, Community: deancasbigbang, Dean swears a lot, M/M, Mugging, Runner Castiel, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5200298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyDelaney/pseuds/DarcyDelaney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas likes to run. He likes that it’s something he can do alone whenever he wants, something to clear his head and decrease his anxiety. All that changes when his sister, Anna, volunteers him to be a guide for a blind runner who wants to participate in the Boston Marathon. Cas is completely, totally, 100% against this at first, but once he meets said runner, the snarky and (if Cas is being honest) ridiculously attractive Dean Winchester, he starts to have a change of heart. Maybe running with a partner won’t be so bad after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes and thanks and stuff**

Holy shit, guys. This is actually a thing that's happening, and it's kind of really hard to believe, but I'm so excited to share it with you! But first, so many thanks are in order!

My artist, the absolutely fabulous [Silvia](http://domlerrys.tumblr.com/). I had so much fun working with you, and your art is so goddamn beautiful, and I know I've told you this before, but it makes me smile so wide whenever I look at it. Thank you for everything; I don't know what I did to deserve an artist as talented and sweet and wonderful as you, but I'm so, so glad I did <3 Please check out her art masterpost on [tumblr](http://domlerrys.tumblr.com/post/133147201087/art-masterpost-run-boy-run-a-dcbb-2015-fic-by) or [lj](http://lerrys.livejournal.com/624.html) and leave her all the love!

My beta, the always-amazing [Athenae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jelliclecas/). She beta'ed the shit out of this story, listened to my freak outs and anxieties about it, and helped make it so much bettah. She saved you guys from literally 3905849 ellipses, too; she should get a medal. She's also the one behind Cas calling Dean "cowboy," and Dean liking to smack Cas with his cane when he doesn't move fast enough. Thank you so much, lovely! <3  

***This fic is now also [in Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4074617) (!!!) thanks to Julia!***

And now for general notes:  
1\. I'm not blind, and I don't know anyone who is. I did a lot of research to try and make everything as realistic as possible, so any inaccuracies are totally on me. Please let me know if there's something outright wrong or offensive, though, and I'll remove or fix it right away!  
2\. I've never run a marathon. The closest I've come is a 5K, so same thing as above applies: any inaccuracies are on me, and please let me know if anything major should be changed.  
3\. I took some artistic liberties with timing, deadlines for qualifying for certain marathons, and Boston weather.

Aaaaand that's it! I really, really hope you guys enjoy this; thanks for checking it out! <3

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _In your eyes are all the colors that the rainbow forgot._  
The Mountain Goats, “Snow Owl”

 

 

The picture has been sitting on the nightstand for over a year, but it’s never gathered any dust because Cas is always picking it up, just like he’s doing now.

He reaches for the frame, letting his thumb run across the dark wood as he studies the picture behind the glass. Sometimes he gets teased for looking at it so often, but he can’t help it; there’s barely a day that goes by when he doesn’t at least _glance_ at the damn thing, and he doesn’t see that ritual changing anytime soon.

As he shifts his thumb so that it’s now tracing one of the faces in the picture, he starts thinking about how different his life is now, and how none of it ever would’ve happened if his sister hadn’t asked him for the most outlandish, unexpected favor in the world.

 

 

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we can't--"

The woman standing on the other side of the customer service counter stares daggers at Castiel, hands on her hips and a _very_ unamused expression on her face. "I don't know why this is so hard for you to understand--" she squints at his name tag "--Cas-teel. We bought tickets online for yesterday, but the weather was horrible, so we didn't come. There were flood warnings!"

Castiel is aware of that; he had to walk through said flood warnings with soaked shoes and an umbrella that decided to break halfway to the museum.

"I understand, ma'am, and we would gladly refund you the money for your admission if we had closed yesterday, but we didn't, so I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. I'm sorry."

For a split second, Castiel fears for his own safety; this woman's out for blood, and he would prefer that it not be his.

"I want to talk to the manager," she says bitingly.

"Ma'am, I--"

" _Manager_ , Cas-teel."

Castiel holds his tongue and nods tersely, trying (and probably failing) to keep the pleasant demeanor that had been drilled into his head a year and a half ago during orientation. He glances down at the desk underneath the counter and pages the manager on duty before looking up at the woman and offering her a tight smile. "He'll be with you in a moment."

She doesn't bother to respond.

A few moments of awkward silence later, Michael emerges from the back, a wide, accommodating smile plastered across his face. He claps Castiel on the shoulder and pauses on his way by and whispers, “It’s ten of three, just take off, okay?” and Castiel is taken by surprise by this small act of kindness. He nods quickly, mouths a polite _thank you_ , and makes for the breakroom.

As he leaves, he can hear Michael, in his best _accommodating manager_ voice, ask the woman how he can help her today. Castiel never wants to be a manager.

He’s heading to the breakroom when he feels a tap on his shoulder, and he turns around to see a harried woman with a small baby balanced on her hip and a toddler wrapped nervously around her right leg. She’s got a badly wrinkled museum map in her hand, and she looks at Castiel expectantly.

“Do you work here?”

 _No,_ Castiel wants to say. _No, I don’t, and even if I did, I think it’s pretty clear that I’m on my way out, and so I’d really appreciate it if you found one of the other twelve people walking around specifically for this purpose, to help guests, and asked them your question. That would be so,_ so _wonderful._

But instead he just says, “Yes,” and proceeds to help the woman find an exhibit that’s halfway across the museum. He skirts around the edges of exhibits as much as possible on his way back to the breakroom, trying to make a clean break for his freedom, and once he catches sight of the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, he sighs in relief before swiping his ID card and pushing the door open.

The employee breakroom is deserted when he enters, and Castiel makes a beeline for his locker, shrugging off his red vest as he walks. The TV is tuned to a sports channel, as usual, showing highlights from past Red Sox seasons, and Castiel ignores it. He’s pretty sure that even if there were a national emergency going on, the people of Boston absolutely wouldn’t be denied their Red Sox games.

He arches his back a little as he hangs up his vest, pressing his hands into the small of his back in a weak attempt to stretch after his shift. He had been assigned to spend the day at the front welcome desk, which is one of his least favorite aspects of his job at the Museum of Science, but if he’s being honest with himself, nearly _all_ of his job duties are his least favorite. He can handle leading tours through the Butterfly Garden and taking tickets for the IMAX movies at the Omni Theater, but everything else makes him wonder why the hell he liked going here so much when he was young.

A giant group of tourists is entering the museum just as Castiel leaves, and he's silently thrilled at the fact that he doesn't have to deal with any more museum-goers until the day after tomorrow (which will undoubtedly come too soon). The museum is normally insane, especially during nice weather, but it’s seemed particularly crazy lately, and Castiel breathes in deeply through his nose to try and rid himself of the anxiety and tension that had built up during the day as he makes his way into the bright Boston sunshine.

The subway stop—no, the _T stop_ ; Castiel has been here for nearly four years, he should know that by now—that’s closest to the museum is called Science Park, and is right near the end of the line, so whenever Castiel gets on, there usually aren’t many people in the car with him. Today is a different story, though; with the nice weather, people have taken advantage of the shopping center at the end of the line, and so the train is already packed with people on their way back into the city. Castiel briefly reconsiders the idea of walking home instead of cramming himself into a stuffy, already-full train car, but his decision is rushed as the conductor clangs a bell impatiently, signaling that the train is about to depart. Digging into his back pocket for his Charlie Card, Castiel taps the card against the turnstile to gain access to the station and climbs up into the train, searching desperately for a bit of free space.

Unsurprisingly, there are no open seats, but Castiel’s eyes lock on an opening near a man holding a book in one hand and standing against a window near the middle of the train, and he makes a beeline for it. Once he gets there, though, he understands why the spot is open in the first place; the guy smells _rank_. Castiel is immediately slammed with a piercing, sour odor that smells like a mix of overcooked peppers and a full diaper that’s been left out in the sun for too long; he covers his mouth, pretending to yawn, and a girl sitting a few feet away catches his eye and gives him a sympathetic smile.

 _It could be worse_ , Castiel tells himself, breathing steadily through his mouth, careful to not let any air sneak in through his nose as he reaches above his head to grip one of the bars to keep his balance. _It could be rush hour, I could be pressed right up against him, it could be a really hot day, he could smell like_ two _dirty diapers…Jesus, does he even_ know _what a shower is…_

The train lurches to the side suddenly as it makes a sharp turn, and Castiel’s grip on the bar above him tightens instinctively. He’s been riding the T since he was young, so adapting to the T’s jerky, clunking movements is second-nature to him.

It’s not to B.O. Guy, though.

Castiel finds this out the hard way, when he feels the man stumble hard into him. His hulking frame smacks into Castiel’s wiry one, and Castiel does his best to smother his disgusted gasp. Instinctively, B.O. Guy reaches out and, instead of grabbing one of the handle bars, grips a handful of Castiel’s shirt to try and steady himself. Castiel stares down at him, unsure of what to do, but knowing that at the very least, he shouldn’t just shove this guy away, no matter how badly he wants to. After a second or two, B.O. Guy pulls his hand away and grins, giving Castiel a “what can you do” shrug, then goes back to his book.

Castiel is quick to get off at the next stop.

 

 

The man’s peppers-and-diaper scent follows Castiel all the way to his apartment, and at first, he just thinks the smell has burned itself into his nose, but once he unlocks his apartment door and takes a cautious sniff, his stomach clenches as he realizes that the smell has somehow attached itself to him.

“ _Wonderful_ ,” Castiel breathes, stripping off his shirt and holding it far away from him, as if he’s dealing with some kind of toxic waste. He’s about to bring it into his bedroom and drop it into the hamper but thinks better of it; one shirt is bad enough, there’s no way he’s letting that smell get into _all_ of his clothes. He heads for the kitchen sink and drops it in there instead, leaving it to be dealt with later.

He’ll deal with it later. That’s how Castiel has spent most of his life since moving to Boston to be closer to his sister Anna, too hesitant and set in his ways to really change anything more about his life, instead just telling himself that he’ll handle it later. He’s been living here for almost four years and still hasn’t gotten himself any new furniture; most of what’s scattered through his tiny apartment are things he picked up off of curbs during move-out day, affectionately referred to in the city as Allston Christmas: a couch with a torn cover and a questionable stain embedded in one of the cushions; a rickety coffee table with uneven legs, a pair of barstools that have seen better days. Everything _looks_ like it should probably smell like peppers and diapers, but Castiel is proud that it doesn’t; his things might be worn and his apartment as a whole isn’t exactly HGTV material, but they’re familiar, they’re his, and he feels comfortable here. Calm.

Castiel heads into his bedroom and digs through the drawers of his bureau--he’s particularly proud of this one, he found it on the curb of a fancy apartment complex in Brookline without a scratch on it--and fishes out a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, changing into them quickly and scooping up his sneakers before heading back to the living room.

The chime of his phone starts going off right when he bends down to start lacing up his sneakers. Not bothering to lift his head up, Castiel reaches up onto the coffee table and palms around until his hand lands on his phone. Distractedly, he unlocks it and tucks it between his ear and his shoulder, resuming tying his laces as he answers.

“Hello?”

Castiel almost immediately regrets picking up the phone when he hears Anna’s voice on the other end.

“Castiel? Favorite brother of mine?” Her voice is high and hopeful. Castiel sighs, already resigned to the fact that his sister needs his help, and judging by the fact that she didn’t even _try_ to exchange pleasantries first, he knows it’s big.

“Anna,” he says.

He can hear the bustling of the office in the background of his sister’s phone call, and she sounds slightly flustered when she replies. “Listen, Castiel, can I ask you for the biggest favor? Like, ever?”

“You already have,” Castiel tells her, tightening his shoelaces once more before straightening up. “When I was living up in New Hampshire, remember? The ‘I left my keys in Fenway after the game and they wouldn’t let me back in to get them since they were closing, so could you please please please drive an hour and a half to come get me, then another hour to Adam’s so I can get my spare key, then _back_ to Fenway to pick up my car, then another hour and a half back to Manchester’ situation. Remember that?”

Anna is silent on the other end of the line, but he can practically see her lips pressing into a thin, pissed off line. “That was five years ago, Castiel.”

“Funny, feels like just yesterday.”

Anna sighs. She’s pinching the bridge of her nose exasperatedly now, he can tell. “This one isn’t just about me,” she says. “I need you to help somebody else.”

“Who?” Castiel can’t keep the curiosity out of his voice as he grabs his keys off the kitchen counter and locks the door to his apartment behind him.

“It’s something for work. Can you come down here on your next day off? I’ll tell you about it then.”

“Why can’t you tell me about it now?”

“Castiel.” Her voice is stern and unwavering, and Castiel is suddenly struck by how much Anna sounds like their mother in this moment. “It’ll be easier to explain in person, and I can answer every single question you might have, no matter how idiotic.”

Castiel opens his mouth to retaliate, but before he can, Anna continues. “Next day off, please.”

“Tomorrow,” he says with a resigned sigh.

“Can you get here by one?”

“I guess so. Yes.”

“Okay.” He pictures her flipping through her ridiculously overflowing planner and scribbling in a note about their meeting. “Thanks, Castiel. See you tomorrow.”

The call disconnects, and Castiel sighs. Getting to Anna’s office at the Massachusetts Association for the Blind will require an extra trip on the always-pain-in-the-ass Green Line, and after riding it six days a week, he’s not thrilled at the prospect of spending his day off squeezed into an already-packed subway car just to hear his sister ask him for a (probably) ridiculously outlandish and unreasonable favor.

The sun is bright and hits him immediately when he exits his building, and he feels around the top of his head for his sunglasses before dragging them down in front of his eyes and starting on his afternoon run.

He doesn’t particularly like the acts of dodging cars and wayward tourists that go hand-in-hand with running, but running has afforded him the ability to discover and explore countless backroads and side streets that he never would have stumbled across otherwise. He keeps his music turned off as he listens to the sound of his sneakers hitting the pavement over and over; their steady rhythm slowly but surely calming him down. Once he reaches Kenmore Square about ten minutes later, he clicks on his headphones and turns the streaming crowds of fans heading to that night’s Red Sox game into an obstacle course. He weaves through confused-looking families, elderly couples searching for a place to sit, and ticket scalpers insisting that _their_ tickets were the cheapest available this side of Lansdowne Street.

As Castiel dodges the guitar case of a busker playing a very-off key version of Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline,” he finds himself wishing that he could just keep running all day, that running could be his job. People get paid for that, right? Hell, people get paid to shop, so he should get paid to run.

Castiel's mind wanders back to when he first started running, to dodge bullies and older kids on the playground, and can't help but marvel at the fact that his now favorite hobby grew out of fear. It started as a necessity--don't get beat up--and it still is one now, but for entirely different reasons. He doesn't do it to avoid getting tormented anymore, now he does it to avoid the stresses of his everyday life. The simultaneous rush and exhaustion and post-run high make him happy, and one day, something switched in his head, and running didn’t associate itself with fear anymore.

He jogs in place at a DO NOT WALK sign, keeping his eyes focused on the deep orange words that most Bostonians ignore. Pedestrians essentially own the city; if there aren’t any cars coming--hell, even if there _are_ \--they take first dibs on moving, but Castiel decides to stay where he is today. Keeping his pace just means he’ll be one step closer to having to go see Anna, be guilted into a favor he most likely really doesn’t want to do, then go to work again, so the few extra moments of running and being outside is exactly what he wants.

The dark orange turns to white too quickly, and Castiel follows the sea of people flowing from one side of the street to the other. Before he knows it, he’s passed the gas station, a dilapidated sandwich shop, and a pizza joint that’s been written up one too many times for health code violations and is back in front of his building. Castiel stops, his chest heaving and T-shirt dotted with sweat under his arms and around his neck. He laces his fingers together behind his head and takes a deep breath before heading through the door, his thoughts about running being replaced once again with what kind of favor Anna wants from him.

 

 

 

The Massachusetts Association for the Blind is tucked into an old-fashioned building on a side street, and Castiel spends a bit too long admiring its intricate architecture and the brick wall surrounding it before entering the lobby and grabbing a visitors’ badge. He’s been here enough times to know that his sister’s office is on the second floor, and starts trekking up the steep, awkwardly proportioned stairs.

The second floor is bustling with people, some crowded around a conference room clutching notepads and pens, others lounging at their desks, absentmindedly playing with paper clips while discussing different fundraising activities on the phone. Castiel lets himself zone out for a few seconds as he walks, only to be jerked back to reality by someone calling his name.

“Castiel!”

He glances up to see Anna poking her head out of a glass-walled office in the corner of the room. She motions for him, and Castiel hurries into her office. Anna closes the door behind him and runs a hand through her hair before heading toward her desk. She had just recently been promoted to the head of the public relations department at MAB, and although Castiel knew she was thrilled with the new opportunity, he could also see the toll that all the added responsibility was already taking on her.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks hesitantly, taking a seat in one of the plastic chairs set out in front of her desk.

Anna huffs and hops up onto her desk, letting her legs dangle in front of it. “Fine,” she says. “Just busy.” Her face softens almost immediately though, and as the sunlight streams in from the window behind her, Castiel thinks her orange hair makes her look almost angelic.

Almost. Depending on what her favor is.

“So,” Castiel says, shifting awkwardly in his seat, “about this favor…”

Anna claps her hands together, almost like she’s praying, and holds them in front of her mouth and nose for a second before bringing them back down and giving Castiel a hopeful smile. “You still run, right, Castiel?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Okay.” She takes a deep breath, seemingly more to calm herself down than Castiel. “Just know, you’d be doing me _and_ someone else a huge favor, _huge_ , and I wouldn’t be asking if I had the resources, but we’re still working through some budget cuts and--”

“What is it, Anna?”

“Okay. So, I was on the phone the other day with a guy named Sam. Really nice, very personable and sweet.”

“Okay.”

“And he’s got a brother. Dean.”

Castiel stares at her, a random--albeit horrifying--thought forming in his mind. _What if she’s planning on setting him up with this guy? This brother, this_ Dean?The last blind date Anna had set him up on ended with him buzzed and crying in the back of a taxi, and Castiel is adamant that nothing like that happens again. “Anna, I don’t--”

“Dean is blind, but he wants to run the Marathon next year.”

Castiel perks up at this. “Really?” It’s admirable that this Dean person wants to run the Marathon, but Castiel can understand how being blind might get in the way of an aspiration like that. Regardless, though, he still finds himself interested in _how_ the man plans to pull it off, and more importantly, _why_ Anna is telling him about it. “But—”

“Every year, qualified blind runners can participate in the Marathon with a guide.”

“Like a guide dog?”

Anna shakes her head and hops down from the desk. “No, Castiel, like a human. People run alongside the blind runners, letting them know if there are obstacles or other runners they need to avoid.”

“That’s nice, but Anna, wh--”

“I need you to be Dean’s guide in the Marathon,” Anna blurts out.

Well. Not exactly the setup he was expecting.

Castiel’s eyes go wide, and he gapes at his sister. “Excuse me?” He doesn’t know how to react to this; how can he be expected to guide someone when he can’t even guide his goddamn self? He also doesn’t run competitively, and he sure as shit doesn’t run with other people. His mind flies through every excuse in the book to try and get himself out of this, but none of them sound daunting enough to convince Anna that he’s the _last_ person she should give this job to, until:

“Don’t I need a degree or something?”

Anna wrinkles her nose. “A degree?”

“Yes.” Castiel is already fumbling over his words, feeling the excuse already collapsing down around him. “In order to, I don’t know, work with him.”

“He’s a human, Castiel, not a lab experiment. So no, you don’t need a _degree_. Just be a nice person.” She studies his face--which he’s sure is still frozen in a look of shock--before continuing. “Dean went blind a little less than a year ago, but before he did, he had run a qualifying time at the Chicago Marathon, and was planning to participate in Boston’s. He’s still entirely eligible, and according to his brother, he wants to do it. Now he just needs a guide.”

“Why doesn’t one of his friends do it with him?”

“None of his friends run,” Anna answers, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“But, but I don’t run competitively.”

Anna sighs exasperatedly. “Neither does _he_ , Castiel. He just needs someone to help him finish the race. That’s it. It doesn’t matter if he comes in first or two thousand and _twenty_ -first. You’re the only one I know who doesn’t think of running as a chore.” She looks at him pleadingly. “Please, Castiel.”

“Don’t…” Castiel casts desperately for some other excuse he can give, some reason why he’s the _last_ person his sister should be considering for this job, when he lands on one that actually makes sense. “Don’t I need to qualify, too? Isn’t it against the rules for me to run if I’m not qualified?” He tries to keep the pride out of his voice and the triumphant smile off his face at finding this loophole in his sister’s logic, but his heart drops when Anna shakes her head.

“You’re not the one who’s actually competing, so you don’t need a qualifying time. You just need to work with him and make sure you can keep up with him, then, just, run with him.”

Well. So much for that.

Castiel hesitates, even though he knows from experience that he’s way too susceptible to Anna’s pleas and pouts. That doesn’t mean he can’t pretend he’s still unconvinced, though. “I don’t know, Anna.”

“ _Please_.” She rests her chin in her hands and stares at Castiel. “Let me just give you his contact info. You two can meet, see if you hit it off, and if you don’t--” she shrugs “--then you don’t. At least give it a try, though.”

Castiel sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers and trying to well up the last remaining fragments of resistance he knows are hidden somewhere in his mind. “Fine,” he finally says.

Anna’s face brightens immediately. “Really?”

“Yes. I’ll try. _Try_ being the key word, Anna.”

“Great!” She bounces off her desk and envelops Castiel in a quick hug, ending the hug almost as quickly as it began. "I've got all of his contact information here, let me get it for you..." She starts rummaging around through the sea of papers on her desk. Castiel studies her as she grabs a file folder and holds it up triumphantly.

"I’m glad you said yes, Castiel,” she says, handing him the folder. “This makes it much easier."

"How's that?" Castiel asks, taking the folder from her and absently flipping through it.

"I already told them you said yes."

Castiel freezes, almost drops the folder. "What would you have done if I said no?"

She shrugs. “Beg until you changed your mind.” She smiles at him warmly. “I know your weak spots, Castiel, and even if you don’t like to admit it, helping people is one of them.”

Castiel opens his mouth to respond, but ends up just staring at his sister again. He doesn’t understand why she thinks he’d be a good fit for this thing; he can barely take care of himself half the time, she _knows_ he can barely take care of himself half the time, so what the hell is she thinking, setting him up to guide someone who can’t even _see_ that Castiel will be fucking everything up?

“Anna, I--”

“They’re expecting you tomorrow night, around eight,” she says, taking a few steps forward and handing him a couple more papers before clasping his hands firmly in her own. “All of their information is in here.” She smiles at him. “Thank you, Castiel. Really.”

Castiel swallows hard, trying to fight back the urge to throw up his lunch. He’s successful--relatively, at least--and manages to give his sister a forced smile.

“Sure.”

“And I mean, if you _really_ don’t want to do it, just make Dean hate you.” Her tone is joking at first, but Castiel’s face must betray the fact that he's seriously considering doing just that, because she quickly turns serious again and adds, “Don’t do that.”

He jerks his head forward in an awkward attempt at a nod, then chuckles nervously, wondering if she can tell that he had been planning on doing just that. "I won't, Anna."

  

 

 

Help someone run.

He’s got to help someone he’s never met, someone who can’t even goddamn _see_ , run a goddamn _marathon_.

Those are the thoughts that tumble over themselves again and again in his head as he makes his way toward the Pour House, the only bar in the city he knows, where Balthazar is waiting for him. One of the few co-workers he can actually stand, Balthazar is the exact opposite of Castiel: loud, flirty, sassy, and confident. Castiel doesn’t know why he enjoys Balthazar’s company so much; all he’s sure of is that the man had promised to pay for Castiel’s tab if he came out for a drink with him tonight, because according to him (and most people in his life), Castiel “needs to get the stick out of his ass and live a little.”

The bar is packed when Castiel enters, and he takes a deep breath as he starts making his way through the throngs of people. He cranes his neck and finally catches Balthazar sprawled out in a booth near the back, located underneath a statue of a scantily clad female pirate. Castiel feels like her hollow eyes are following him, and he shudders uncomfortably before sliding into the booth across from his friend.

“Cassie!” Balthazar looks almost surprised to see him, and Castiel can’t blame him; he’s got a bit of a reputation for backing out of plans at the last minute. He recovers quickly, though, and tips his half-empty glass toward Castiel in greeting. “How’s tricks?”

For a brief second, Castiel entertains the idea of acting like everything’s fine, like he’s not on the verge of having a panic attack because he’s too nice to say no to his sister and her ridiculously outlandish requests, but Balthazar catches on quickly. He reaches across the table and pats Castiel’s hand. “How about a beer.” It’s not a question, and Castiel allows Balthazar to order for him.

Half an hour later, Castiel is starting in on his third beer and is halfway through a basket of cheese fries, and he’s just reaching the conclusion of the saga that was his afternoon. “And now,” he says, running a hand through his hair and bringing the bottle to his lips once more, “I have to go meet him tomorrow.”

Balthazar is silent for a few seconds, studying Castiel over the rim of his glass before taking a swig himself and pursing his lips in consideration. “Honestly, Castiel, you need to stop worrying. Hell, when you get right down to it, it’s just running with a partner.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “Do _you_ want to do it, then?”

Balthazar barks out a laugh. “Christ, no, of course not! I’m just trying to make you feel better, mate.” He tilts his head back and downs the rest of his beer, swallowing quickly before setting his bottle down on the table with a clatter. "Your sister obviously thinks you're the man for the job."

"Just because I like to run," Castiel says miserably, slouching down and dropping his head into his hands.

Balthazar suddenly smacks his open palm against the tabletop, and Castiel jerks his head up, startled. “Exactly," his friend says. "You're doing something you like to do, so It won't be that bad." It's a stupid solution; Castiel _knows_ he likes to run, but doing it with someone else, with someone he's never met, will turn his one activity of solace into a train wreck he already knows he won't be able to bear. As he thinks about this, his stomach clenching with panic at every passing second, Castiel notices the way his friend's eyes wander to follow a cute waitress delivering some burgers to a neighboring table, and realizes that Balthazar probably has other things on his mind than Castiel's dilemma. "Just think of it as a babysitting gig. A long...unpaid babysitting gig where you look after...a grown man." Balthazar pauses for a second, then wrinkles his nose. "Christ, that does sound awful."

Castiel sighs, running a hand through his hair before taking another sip of his own beer.

"Maybe you'll get a karma point or two out of it," Balthazar says with a shrug.

"I don't want karma points; I just don't want to do this. I'm not qualified, I've never even _met_ a blind person before. I don't know what to do, even though Anna seems to be convinced I do.”

Balthazar studies him for a few seconds, then waggles his eyebrows seductively, and Castiel’s eyes widen slightly as he follows Balthazar’s train of thought before averting his gaze.

“No, Balthazar.”

Balthazar groans and throws his arms up in the air dramatically. “Oh, come on! Why not?”

“Because I’m not _you_ ,” Castiel says exasperatedly. He snatches up a fry and dips it in the enormous puddle of ketchup in the corner of the basket.

“Christ, Castiel, the mystery of why you’re so uptight all the time could be solved with a simple fuck from the wonderful Dan Westchester.”

Castiel can feel his cheeks burning with the bluntness of Balthazar’s statement, but instead of a rebuttal or dismissal, he says, “Dean Winchester.”

“What?”

“His name is Dean Winchester.”

Balthazar smirks at him. “Getting protective of him already, eh?”

“It’s nothing like that--”

“It’s actually a lucky break,” Balthazar muses. “He won’t even be able to see what an ugly mug you’ve got for yourself, Cassie.”

Anger and embarrassment, hot and bright, start to well up in the pit of Castiel’s stomach on Dean’s behalf, and Castiel glares at his friend. “That’s rude, Balthazar. And I don't even know anything about him, or what he looks like, or if he's single--”

"I bet he is."

Castiel glares at him, and Balthazar raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Fine, fine, have it your way.” He rolls his eyes and grabs a couple of cheese fries. “But really, Castiel, I know you practically _majored_ in over thinking in college, but just this once, try not to, huh?”

“You told me two minutes ago that it sounded awful,” Castiel says in disbelief. “How the hell am I _not_ supposed to overthink it now?”

Balthazar smirks and leans forward, clapping a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “I’ve got faith in you, Cassie. But the therapy office is closing up for the night; I’ve got an opening shift tomorrow.” Balthazar slowly slides out of the booth, pulling a few bills from his pocket and dropping them onto the table. He smacks his open hand against the wood again and grins at Castiel. “Just remember, though, running releases aphrodisiacs.” He waggles his eyebrows, and Castiel rolls his eyes.

“I think you mean endorphins, Balthazar.”

Balthazar shrugs. “Same thing.” His face goes serious and he pats Castiel on the back. “See you at work, Castiel.”

Castiel watches as Balthazar snakes his way easily through the people he had awkwardly tried to maneuver around. He watches as Balthazar flashes a bright smile at their waitress before winking at a girl sipping a midori sour at the bar. He watches as he makes effortless small talk with the bouncer at the door, clapping him on the shoulder as if they were good friends, even though they had most likely just met that very moment. He watches all these things happen, and wishes he could do them, too, which just as much ease and candor as Balthazar does.

He shakes his head and orders another beer.

 

 

 

The T is much less crowded at eleven when Castiel finally leaves the Pour House and starts heading for home. Still a bit buzzed and full of cheese fries, Castiel reaches into his shoulder bag for the file Anna had given him earlier. He glances out one of the scuffed, smudged windows of the train, then opens the file with a sigh.

He didn't know what he was expecting--maybe something closer to missing persons files they show on _Law and Order_ \--but it definitely wasn't what's sitting on his lap right now.

The meager information his sister had gathered on Dean Winchester didn't even warrant its own folder. The wrinkled piece of paper is likely to have been ripped from Anna's notebook mere moments before Castiel had arrived; it'd explain the flushed breathlessness his sister had greeted him with. There's not much at all on the paper, just a few bullet points written in Anna's neat script.

  *       Dean Winchester, 27
  *       485 Rochdale, Wellesley
  *       Diag. RP Dec. 2013
  *       Chicago marathon time: 2:30:56, 10/2013
  *       2015 marathon, no guide
  *       Sam: 617-555-3726
  *       Castiel



Castiel sighs, tracing his finger along the three lines under his name. He would've at least appreciated a picture of the guy.

"Dean Winchester," Castiel breathes, testing the name out on his tongue. It sounds rough, rough but warm--rustic, maybe--and as much as he doesn't want to, Castiel finds himself liking the sound of the name. He looks down at the paper again before closing the folder and resting his palm on it. Keeping it there, he glances out the train's window and notices that they've reached the stops that are above ground, and that the city is slowly tucking itself in for the night. Cars are becoming more scarce, a few straggling pedestrians are making their way home, everything seems to be slowing down around the train. Castiel's eyes catch the moon, half-shrouded in clouds and hanging high in the sky, then glances down at the folder once more. Castiel takes a deep breath and softly, hesitantly, mutters, "See you tomorrow, Dean Winchester."

 


	2. Chapter 2

It would’ve taken Castiel more than two hours to get to Dean Winchester’s house if he had had to take public transportation--two buses, the train, _and_ the commuter rail, plus a fifteen-minute walk--so he’s grateful that after a few desperate texts last night, Anna let him borrow her car for the time being. The mess of anxiety that’s made itself at home in the pit of his stomach is getting worse as he drives slowly through the neat, well-kept Wellesley streets, which are a far cry from the potholes and trash-laden sidewalks of his own neighborhood.

Castiel has pioneered Anna's car's CD player, replacing her classical soundtracks with his Ben Gibbard mix. The singer's soft voice has been a go-to ever since his music helped Castiel through his very first anxiety attack in college, and he couldn't think of a more appropriate time to utilize it as the car inches closer and closer to Dean Winchester's house.

After a few minutes and last-minute turns, the robotic voice of Anna’s GPS tells him that he’s reached his destination, and when Castiel peeks out the window, he can’t help but be impressed.

The house at 485 Rochdale Street is huge, painted a calm powder blue color with white shutters, with a white wraparound porch that looks like it’s made to sip lemonade on during the summertime. Well-kept shrubs dotted with pink flowers line the house, and if Castiel had to guess, he’d say that they’re taken care of by a professional, at least on a weekly basis. Taking a deep breath, Castiel pockets the paper with his partner’s name and address and climbs out of the car, ambling toward the front door and trying his best to act like he’s not out of place, like he belongs here, like he knows what the hell he's doing.

Almost immediately after he knocks on the thick, white-painted door, a dog starts barking wildly from inside the house. Castiel straightens a little as he hears someone yelling for the dog to calm down; there’s a scuffling noise, and then the door finally opens.

A behemoth of a man is standing on the other side of it, holding an equally huge golden retriever back by the collar. He glances up at Castiel and gives him an apologetic smile as he tries to pull the dog back before it can tackle him.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, using his leg to bar the dog from moving forward. “Rudy, _down_!” he scolds the dog before turning his attention back to Castiel. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, my name is Castiel Novak, I’m--”

Before his can finish, the man’s eyes brighten in recognition, and he cuts Castiel off. “Dean’s running partner?”

Castiel nods, and the man beams, looking like he’s restraining himself from pulling Castiel into a hug right there on the porch. “I’m guessing I have the right house, then?”

The man laughs, nudging the dog further back into the house before closing the door behind him. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, this is it.” He sticks out his hand for Castiel to shake. “I’m Sam. Dean’s brother.”

“Pleasure. Is Dean here?”

For the first time in their brief conversation, Sam looks uncomfortable. Castiel guesses that he doesn’t look this way often, and waits for an explanation.

“Uh, yeah, he’s inside.” Sam suddenly won’t meet Castiel’s eye, rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “There’s just one issue I’ve gotta run by you first.”

Castiel’s stomach drops at that. He tries to hide his anxiety, but he wasn’t prepared to deal with any issues. _Just go to the house and meet your partner,_ Anna had said. _It’ll be fine, just a quick meet-and-greet. You won’t have to start training together for another week or two, at least._

“He, uh, he doesn’t know you’re here.”

Castiel stares at Sam dumbly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “He doesn’t--”

“Dean’s probably the most stubborn person I know,” Sam interrupts. He’s trying to sound easygoing, like he’s joking, but Castiel can hear the truth in Sam’s voice, as well. “And he’s just kind of, I don’t know, sensitive’s probably not the right word, but he hasn’t thought about running since everything happened.”

Castiel furrows his brow. “But Anna said--”

Sam’s eyes brighten in recognition at the name, and he’s quick to amend his statement. “Oh, no, what I told Anna is true, he had been accepted before. Back in October, actually.” Sam huffs out a laugh that sounds like he’s trying too hard to be lighthearted. “I still catch him folding and unfolding that goddamn printout of his acceptance email almost every day. He hasn’t thrown it away, though, and he hasn’t withdrawn from the race, either, so I really think he still wants to do it.”

“You’re...making your brother do this,” Castiel says uncertainly.

“No!” Sam’s eyes widen a little, and he glances behind him at the closed door. “No, no, no. Listen, man, you don’t know him, but he’s wanted to do this for a long time. Ever since he started running. I think he’s just scared, but he just needs a push.” Sam mimes pushing someone gently, flashing Castiel a hopeful half smile that doesn’t make Castiel feel any better.

Sam sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “Listen, just try and talk to him, okay? If he gets upset, I’ll tell him it was all my idea, and that’ll be the end of it. No harm, no foul.” He sets his dark eyes on Castiel, and Castiel stares at him for a few seconds before averting his own eyes with a sigh.

“All right,” he says, hefting his backpack strap up higher on his shoulder as Sam’s face softens in relief.

“ _Thank_ you.” He flashes Castiel a brilliant smile and reaches behind him for the doorknob. “Just shove Rudy away if he tries to jump on you. He’s still working on his manners.”

“Should I take my shoes off?” Castiel asks as they enter the house, and Sam chuckles, still trying to keep Rudy’s ridiculous energy at bay.

“Please don’t,” he says, and Castiel raises his eyebrows at the unexpected answer, but does as Sam says.

The vibe that Sam gives off is warm and relaxed, so Castiel is surprised that the first thing he notices about the Winchester house is that it’s clean, almost impeccably so. He had been expecting a bit more of a frat house decor, complete with empty pizza boxes and half-drunk beer bottles; two brothers sharing a house together doesn’t exactly scream _good housekeeping_. The walls are dotted with slightly crooked framed photos and faded old movie posters, which plays a bit more into what Castiel was picturing, but nothing about the rest of the house seems to be out of place; no doors are ajar, nothing is left out in the hall, no random dog toys or treats rolling around.

As they pass the kitchen, Castiel notes that it’s the same as the rest of the house; no open cabinets, all the chairs are pushed in right up against the table. There isn’t even a trashcan in sight. Aside from the walls and a few dirty dishes in the sink, it almost looks like nobody even really lives here.

For a split second, Castiel wonders if the brothers are squatting. It’d explain the cleanliness; they would only need a few minutes to grab their things and go if someone caught onto them. _No, that’s impossible, someone would’ve noticed squatters in a house this nice, right?_ Castiel shakes his head quickly to try and rid himself of the thought.

Castiel can hear a TV show playing in the living room that they’re approaching, and before they get there, Sam nudges Rudy into another room that’s fenced off with a giant baby gate. The second the gate snaps closed, Rudy is on his hind legs, peeking over the top of the gate and giving Castiel a pleading look.

“Sorry, buddy,” Sam says, scratching behind one of Rudy’s ears. “Playtime later, okay?” Rudy drops back down onto all fours and when he does, Castiel hears a tinkling bell for the first time. He looks down and realizes that that’s exactly what it is: a small brass bell, the kind store owners use to announce the presence of entering customers, is threaded through Rudy’s collar and dangling at the base of his neck. Castiel is about to comment on it when a deep, rich voice shouts from the couch in the living room.

“I don’t smell any pizza, Sammy!”

Castiel cranes his neck, but all he can see is a head of dirty blonde hair facing an oversized flat screen TV.

“Uh, pizza’s not here yet, Dean.”

“Then what is?”

Sam motions for Castiel to follow him, and he does. They make their way to the front of the couch, and Castiel’s breath nearly catches in his throat at the sight of his partner. Dean Winchester, actual real life in the flesh Dean Winchester, is already living up to Castiel's thoughts about his name. The man is sprawled out on the couch, his socked feet kicked up on the coffee table and crossed at the ankles. Castiel lets his eyes quickly roam over the bow of Dean’s legs, his jeans loose but well-fitting, which actually seems to describe Dean’s entire outfit. His faded flannel shirt is rolled up to the elbows, and Castiel forces his knees not to buckle. He’s got one hand wrapped around a beer, the bottle dripping condensation onto the fabric of the couch. He reminds Castiel of a campfire, he looks...rustic. Like he's tough, but also warm, like there's a spark of mischief in him.

Two thoughts immediately start clamoring for his attention: how unfair it is for one person to be so goddamn good-looking; and how Balthazar somehow _knew_ how ridiculously attractive Dean Winchester would be.

“Dean, this is Castiel.” Dean turns toward Sam’s voice, and Castiel finds himself studying Dean’s eyes. They’re green and unfocused, clouded over and a little dull, but Castiel imagines how bright they must’ve been before, well, before whatever happened, happened. Dean automatically sticks out his hand, which Castiel takes. His palm is warm against Castiel’s cold skin, and Dean flashes a crooked smile in his direction.

“Hey, man.”

“Hi.” He glances down when he feels a warm ball of fur against his shins; a large black lab is curled up on the hardwood floor and blinks open one eye, studying Castiel disinterestedly. He notices quickly that this dog also has a bell.

“That’s Jack,” Sam says. “Dean’s dog.”

“He’s beautiful,” Castiel says, and for a second, he’s not sure if he’s referring to the dog or his owner.

His owner, he decides quickly. Definitely his owner.

“You a friend of Sammy’s?” Dean asks, taking a sip of his beer.

“Uh, no.”

Dean wrinkles his nose as he seems to think of a new option for Castiel’s identity. “Dude, I have no idea why Sam let you in, but if you’re some kind of door-to-door salesman, we don’t need any knives or Bibles or encylc--”

“He’s here to run with you, Dean,” Sam interrupts, and both Castiel and Dean turn toward Sam, surprised by his bluntness. Dean’s the one who speaks first.

“Why the hell would he run with me? I don’t even know him. I don’t even _run_ anymore.”

Sam motions for Castiel to follow him to the front of the couch. He takes a seat next to Dean and points to the recliner. Castiel drops his bag to the floor and sits down as well. “I know you still have that acceptance letter from the Marathon, Dean,” Sam starts. “And you haven’t withdrawn yet. You want to do this, even if you won’t admit it, I know you do, and Castiel can help you.”

Dean stays silent, but Castiel can see the way his body has stiffened, and it makes him want to get up and leave, pretend he was never in the Winchester house, before he causes more damage.

“I’m not a fucking charity case, Sam,” Dean says through gritted teeth.

“Nobody’s saying you are. I just think that you can still do this, man. You _can_ , and I think you want to. There’s nothing wrong with getting help from pe--”

“No.”

“Dean--”

“ _No_.”

“I really think you--”

“It’s not your fucking _decision_.” His lips form into an angry pout, and Castiel is not thinking about how goddamn _attractive_ that pout is, wondering how goddamn _soft_ those lips are and how they’d maybe feel against his own; no, he’s absolutely not.

Castiel’s eyes dart between the two brothers, Sam looking pleadingly at Dean, Dean’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrow and angry. He wonders if they’ve forgotten that he’s even here. Rudy’s yelps from the other room punctuate the silence, and Castiel wishes he had a stress ball to squeeze the life out of.

“Rudy, _shut up_!” Dean yells. He sets his beer bottle down on the coffee table before resting his forearms on his knees, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. Castiel studies the way Dean’s shoulder blades go tense, the muscles strong and taut underneath his shirt.

“Dean,” Sam says with a sigh. He scrubs a hand over his mouth before focusing on his brother again. “Would you just try? Please? He came all the way out here--” Sam gestures toward Castiel, “--and now you’re acting like a baby. Just ta--”

“Because _you_ sprang this goddamn thing on me out of nowhere!” Dean snaps, jerking his head up and glaring at his brother. “Don’t you dare, Sam. Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Just talk to him.”

“Fuck you.”

“Damn it, Dean.” Sam glares at his brother, who stares back at him, daring him to say anything else. Sam turns to Castiel and sighs. “Can you give us some time alone, Castiel? Let me talk to him a little?”

Dean scoffs. “‘s not gonna do any good.”

“Sure,” Castiel says, glancing at Dean as he gets to his feet and grabs his backpack, following Sam out to the hallway.

“Sorry,” Sam says once they’re out of earshot, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “I probably should’ve run it by him first. At least a little.”

Castiel nods. “Probably.” He bites back the urge to add _Told you so_.

“Can I get your number? Just in case he comes around?”

“Um.” Castiel pats his pockets and digs into one when he feels the outlines of a pen. “Sure.”

Sam glances around and grabs a pad of sticky notes from the side table next to the staircase. “I’m really sorry again, man,” he says as Castiel scribbles down his contact info. “If he does say yes, I don’t—he’s not always like this.”

Castiel nods, pushing the pad back toward Sam as he pockets his pen. “Let me know,” he says quickly, making for the front door. Almost immediately after he closes it and starts making his way down the porch and back to his car, Castiel can hear the brothers yelling at each other. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and notices that he’s got a new text from Anna.

_So? How’d it go??_

 

Castiel hasn’t heard from Dean or Sam in three days, and he starts to wonder if maybe he won’t have to go through with this, after all. Dean had _not_ been happy about it at all, and from his brief interaction with him that day, Castiel can’t picture him backing down or changing his mind about it, or, well, anything, for that matter.

The likelihood of this whole scenario not happening would normally be good news, except for the fact that Castiel can’t get Dean out of his head.

Castiel doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt this... _enamored_ with someone, especially right from the get-go, and it’s unsettling, to say the least. Hell, he’s only interacted with Dean for all of five minutes, and now the guy has decided to go and make himself at home in Castiel’s head? Every time he tries to force Dean out of his mind, though, the man seems to dig down deeper, and Castiel thinks of more and more things he likes about him, and how he’s absolutely not the worst person to be thinking about on a regular basis.

There’s his jaw line, for one thing. A good jaw line doesn’t do much for some people, but it’s high on the list of priorities for Castiel, and Dean’s is damn near flawless.

There’s also the way his lips scrunch up into this pouting little smirk, and how Castiel has already thought--on multiple occasions--what they’d feel like pressed up against his own.

Castiel’s cheeks go pink as his mind continues to wander back to Dean, no matter how hard he tries to do otherwise. He thinks about Dean’s eyes again, and how Castiel imagines they looked in the past. They were green, that much was still clear, but he believes that at one time they probably looked like grass in the summer, bright and fresh. They’re still lively, that’s for sure; it had been pretty damn easy for Dean to express his emotions--anger, frustration, annoyance at Castiel--with a simple glare.

A little spark of hope makes itself at home in Castiel’s chest as he starts to wonder how Dean’s eyes would look if Castiel could reverse those emotions, if he could make Dean smile, laugh, just look happy, and that’s suddenly all he really wants to do.

Castiel’s heart is in his throat as he starts his daily run, and he starts to berate himself about his newfound desire to see Dean again, or at least get a chance to talk to him. _C’mon, Castiel, get it together. You’re acting like a middle schooler waiting for their crush to call them; stop it, you’re a goddamn adult, start acting like it_. He uses his nervous energy and uncertainty about the situation to power him through his run, from the light jog at the very beginning all the way to the return to his apartment, seven miles later. His hair’s a mess, he’s drenched in sweat, and all he wants is a shower and maybe a beer...and for Dean Winchester to get the hell out of his head, but that doesn’t seem to be happening any time soon.

Castiel jams the key into the door of his apartment, his chest heaving. The door sticks a little, and Castiel shoves against it with his shoulder until it bursts open, like usual. He tosses his keys onto the chipped kitchen counter and is in the process of toeing off his sneakers when he hears his phone’s ringtone emanate through his earbuds.

He digs his phone out of his pocket with a sigh and doesn’t bother to glance at the caller ID before accepting the call.

“Hello?” His voice is rough and breathless, and he sucks in air through his nose to try and even out his breathing as he waits for the response.

“Castiel?”

Castiel tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder before starting to stretch, grabbing at his foot and pulling it up behind his back. “Speaking.”

“It’s Dean Winchester.” Castiel’s heart stutters, he drops his foot immediately, and tries to clear his throat as discreetly as possible.

“Uh, hi.”

“I’ll do it.”

“You’ll—”

“Sam won’t shut up about it, so I’ll do it.” He sounds utterly defeated, and as Castiel kicks his shoes next to the door and grabs a seat on one of the barstools in the kitchen, he finds himself wishing he could tell Dean he didn’t have to do this.

“Um, I, okay. When do you want to start?”

“Whenever.” Dean’s response is short and curt, and for a second, Castiel considers hanging up and telling Anna that it wouldn’t work out, that he couldn’t do it. He could lie, say that he never heard from the Winchesters again, and just assumed they decided against it. Hell, that’s probably what Dean wants, too.

Castiel bites his lip, running through his calendar--his extremely open calendar--in his mind. “Well, I have to work tomorrow, so what about the day after? Better to start sooner than later.”

Dean grunts on the other end of the line, which Castiel takes in the affirmative.

“Is five too early?”

He just barely catches Dean’s breathed-out “ _Jesus_ ,” and Castiel can’t help but smirk. Despite the peace and quiet he gets from running while everyone else is asleep, getting up early is his least favorite part of this whole thing, too.

“At my place.”

“Of course.”

“Okay.” Another pause, then a quick, muttered “Bye” and Dean hangs up.

Castiel takes his phone away from his ear and studies it for a few seconds. “Bye,” he finally says.

 

Castiel takes back everything about how much he hates working at the welcome desk.

Excavation Nation is worse. So, so much worse.

Comprised of a handful of hollowed-out tables that are filled with sand and “fossils,” Excavation Nation is an ideal place for parents, field trip chaperones, and older siblings to dump their littler charges for a while, leaving Castiel to act as babysitter while also trying to teach them about dinosaurs.

It’s not so bad when there are only a handful of kids that need supervising, but today isn’t one of those days. Apparently every single school in a 50-mile radius of Boston has decided that today is perfect for field trips, and Excavation Nation (as well as the rest of the museum) has been packed with overly curious, sugar-infused kids since the museum opened. The hordes of kids would have been slightly more manageable if Balthazar had been helping Castiel instead of flirting with a girl off to the side of the exhibit. He catches Castiel shooting a glare in his direction and flashes him a toothy grin, raising an eyebrow.

Castiel rolls his eyes and turns back to busying himself with the mundane task of making sure that all of the fake fossils are at least halfway covered with sand and dust. As he shifts the sand over each fossil, his mind keeps wandering back to Dean, wondering how tomorrow will go. Will Dean be in a better mood? Is he going to resent Castiel? Oh god, what if he already hates him? Castiel doesn’t think he’ll be able to deal with that, and as if to confirm this, his stomach does an unpleasant little flip.

Suddenly, a high-pitched wail cuts through Castiel’s thoughts. His attention is drawn to the center table, where two boys have started an impromptu sword fight with a triceratops horn and some kind of femur bone. They can’t be more than ten years old, and one of them is wearing a hat shaped like a frog--$17.99 in the museum gift shop, Castiel automatically thinks--that the other one is trying to knock off with his fossil.

“Avaste ye, matey!” Regular Kid yells, jabbing at Frog Hat with his fossil. Frog Hat executes an unexpected parry to dodge the blow, and Castiel raises his eyebrows, momentarily impressed. However, not only is the fight ridiculously one-sided--the femur is much bigger than the triceratops horn--it also opens the Museum up to at least five different lawsuits, none of which Castiel wants to happen during his shift. One more quick glance Balthazar’s way shows that he has zero interest in trying to break up the sparring match, so Castiel gets to his feet and heads toward the boys.

“Excuse me,” Castiel says, hoping that his voice doesn’t crack--he doesn’t have much of an air of authority to begin with, but he can kiss it all goodbye if his voice cracks.

“Take _that_!” Frog Hat shouts, jabbing Regular Kid in the chest with the femur bone.

Castiel takes a deep breath and gets closer, coming up behind Regular Kid to tap him on the shoulder. “Hey, no fighting al--” Regular Kid rears back with his triceratops horn and before Castiel can dodge it, the bone smashes into his face. “ _Fuck_!”

He stumbles backward, hand clutching at his nose, eyes wide. Both Regular Kid and Frog Hat freeze and turn around to stare at him, dropping the dinosaur bones to the carpeted floor. Castiel stares right back, conscious of the blood starting to slowly drip through his fingers. Someone clears their throat behind him, and Castiel turns around to see a cluster of parents and chaperones looking at him disapprovingly. His eyes eventually find Balthazar, who is standing off to the side, looking sheepish. He mouths, “Fuck, I’m sorry,” and Castiel looks away quickly.

_Perfect. Just fucking perfect._

 

Fifteen minutes later, Castiel is sitting in Michael’s office, holding an ice pack gingerly against his nose. It’s not broken, thankfully, but it hurts like hell, and Castiel sighs as Michael pulls out a pad of paper.

“How’s your nose?” his boss asks, not unkindly, and Castiel shrugs.

“Could be better,” he says, his voice nasally and muffled by the ice pack. He watches as Michael starts scribbling on the pad, and shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Michael nods absently. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, try and recoup,” he suggests. Castiel glances at the clock on the wall; his shift is scheduled to end in forty-five minutes anyway.

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Good, good.” He finally stops writing and looks at Castiel, who feels like a mess. His excavator’s uniform comprised of khaki everything is rumpled and probably has a bloodstain or two on the shirt, his hair is mussed, and he’s pretty sure his rapidly swelling nose isn’t doing him any favors in the professionalism department, either. “I’m sorry about this, Castiel,” he continues, chewing on his lower lip. “I know this wasn’t your fault, but we have to abide by policy. You used foul language in front of guests, and we’ve already gotten several complaints.”

Castiel’s stomach twists into knots, and he wonders if he’s going to be sick as he gapes at Michael. “They left their children unattended,” he tries. “That’s--”

“I know. And I’ve suggested that when they visit the museum again, they keep a closer eye on their kids.” Castiel wants to suggest that they put them on a leash, but he stays quiet as Michael hands him a write-up slip. “It’s only your first infraction, so you should be fine. Just...don’t get two more, okay?” Michael smiles tightly, and Castiel stares down at the slip of paper in his hand before nodding slowly.

“Thank you,” he says defeatedly, and Michael gets up from behind his desk.

“Go get some rest,” he says, clapping a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “And try not to get hit with anything else on the way home, all right?”

 

The swelling had seemed to stop a few hours after he got home, but Castiel had wanted nothing more than to just pass out until his first run with Dean. Apparently his body had other plans, though. Castiel spends the night tossing and turning and finally relents to his body’s jitters around three in the morning. He drags himself out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom, running on autopilot as he turns the shower on and waits for the water to heat up before stepping inside.

The saturation and heat from the water is already wisping up toward the ceiling as Castiel rubs shampoo through his hair. He holds his hands out in front of him, palms up, and watches as the suds run between his fingers until his hands are clean again. For a second, he doesn’t know why, but he wonders if Dean used to do this, when he could see. Or if maybe he still does.

Impulsively, Castiel closes his eyes and takes a few steps forward in the shower, holding his hands out to try and find his bottle of body wash. His fingers curl around the bottle quickly, and he flicks the top open and squirts some into his open palm. The familiar mint scent fills the air around him, and he lets out a sigh of relief before opening his eyes again.

As he finishes up his shower and steps out onto the bathmat, he’s suddenly struck with another thought--if it hurts when Dean gets shampoo in his eyes. He figures it wouldn’t be a very polite conversation starter, so he files it away as something to ask Anna. She’ll probably laugh him straight out of her office, but now he’s curious.

Part of him, a small, microscopic part way at the back of his brain that he shouldn’t even bother listening to because it’ll never fucking happen, also kind of hopes that he and Dean become close, close enough that he can ask Dean about it himself.

 

The Winchesters’ street is much sleepier than Castiel remembers. Everything looks peaceful and perfect in the early morning, and Castiel feels like he’s been transported into a fairy tale as he drives down the freshly paved street, glancing every so often at the houses he passes, all wraparound porches, wicker chairs and perfectly manicured lawns.

From what little he learned from his first encounter with the brothers, he knows for a fact that they don’t belong here, and he suddenly starts to seriously reconsider his squatting theory.

Once Castiel arrives at the Winchesters and parks right next to the light pole, just like he did during his first visit, he starts to wonder about the etiquette of getting Dean’s attention. Should he knock? Send a text, maybe? Well, _fuck_ , Castiel, how the hell do you expect Dean to read a text? Maybe he should call—

The decision is suddenly made for him when the heavy front door creaks open, and a white cane poking out onto the porch, quickly followed by Dean’s body, and goddamn if Castiel’s breath doesn’t catch in his throat again.

It almost makes him angry, how attractive Dean is, even when he looks like he’s literally just stumbled out of bed a few minutes ago. His faded gray Bruins shirt and navy mesh shorts are wrinkled, as if he grabbed them haphazardly out of a dirty clothes hamper, and his hair is messy; there’s no way it’s seen anything remotely close to a comb today. He rubs at his eyes under his shades with one hand while tapping the cane a few feet in front of him until it hits the steps; once he’s reached them, he descends the four steps easily, and starts down the cobblestone path.

Castiel realizes suddenly that this is the first time he’s seen Dean walk around. He’s fascinated by it, the sureness with which he walks, the cane acting as more of an accessory than anything else.

Castiel opens his mouth and fumbles for words, finally settling on a simple, “Good morning, Dean.”

Dean grunts as he continues toward him. Castiel notices a flutter of movement and peeks over Dean’s shoulder to see Sam standing in the doorway, wearing just a pair of plaid pajama pants, and Castiel wonders how the hell _both_ Winchester brothers managed to acquire such quality genes.

Sam catches Castiel’s eye and waves. Castiel waves back and smiles to himself at Sam’s proud face; he looks like he’s seeing his five-year-old off for the first day of school. Dean blinks sleepily and yawns as he makes it to the end of the path. His face suddenly contorts into something like annoyance, and he shouts over his shoulder, “Get outta here, Sam.”

Castiel looks up, startled that Dean had noticed Sam is still there. Sam’s eyes narrow, but he closes the door. Dean doesn’t start walking again until he hears the door click shut. He stops at the fence and leans his cane against it.

“Take me right back here when we’re done. Otherwise I won’t be able to find that thing again.”

Castiel nods slowly, then remembers that Dean can’t see that. “Sure.” In an effort to avoid some of the impending awkwardness, he bends down and starts re-tying his shoelaces. Dean stays silent, and when Castiel peeks up, he’s just standing there, running a hand through his hair and yawning.

“Okay,” Castiel finally says, tightening the laces one last time before straightening. “Do you want to like, touch my face or anything before we start?”

Dean stares at him, one hand on his hip. “Why the hell would I want to do that?”

Castiel’s cheeks redden furiously at Dean’s indignant tone; apparently everything pop culture had taught him about interacting with blind people had been a lie. _Shit_.

“I...isn’t that what people do? To figure out who’s who?”

Dean is silent for a few seconds, then scoffs. “‘m not touching your face, dude.”

“Right.” Castiel looks down, fingers playing with the rope Anna had dropped off yesterday. It’s about ten inches long, with a loop on each end, one for him and one for Dean. “Uh, well, my sister gave me this rope, and you hold one end and I hold the other, and we--”

Dean holds his hand out impatiently, and Castiel rolls his eyes. “Okay, then,” he mutters, placing the end of the rope into Dean’s waiting hand. He curls his fingers around it quickly, and Castiel does the same with his side.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice is low and still heavy with sleep, but it’s the least amount of attitude that he’s given Castiel so far, so he takes it as progress and starts off at a slow jog. It takes them a few seconds to sync up their strides--running with a partner is one thing, but running while _attached_ to said partner is something else entirely--but once they have a relatively strong handle on it, Castiel allows himself to feel a tiny spark of optimism. Maybe this won’t be as bad as he’d feared.

Castiel had decided to run on the outside, so that Dean would be closest to the curb. He figured it’d be safer; he didn’t want Dean getting slammed by a car, and he’s proud of himself for making a smart decision until he hears a hollow thud and feels Dean jerk backwards while emitting a string of curses. When Castiel turns around, his eyes widen.

“Shit,” he breathes, wondering how he could’ve missed something this obvious.

The street is lined with mailboxes, all of which jut out slightly into the street. Castiel hadn’t even thought about it; he’s never given mailboxes a second thought, but judging by the way Dean’s got an arm wrapped gingerly around his side, he probably should have.

“Jesus, Dean, I’m sorry,” Castiel says. “Are you okay?”

Dean sucks in a long breath through his nose before slowly straightening himself, wincing as he stretches his side. Without responding to Castiel’s apology, Dean resumes a slow jog, and Castiel quickly falls into step with him.

 _Okay, extra-vigilant now_. Castiel’s eyes scan the road in front of them, desperately searching out even the smallest roadblock that could cause Dean trouble. When he spots a stick in the road, his eyes widen and he glances quickly at Dean, wondering if it’s big enough for him to accidentally trip over.

“Uh, there’s a stick right in--” The stick snaps in two as Dean’s feet pass over it easily, and Castiel’s cheeks go pink. “Never mind.”

They run at a steady pace for about half a mile, their steps in sync with each other, and Castiel smiles to himself. _This isn’t so bad_ , he thinks, sucking in a fresh breath of air through his nose before exhaling through his mouth. _I think we’re doing pretty well, not bad at all._

As they approach the end of the street, Castiel starts to veer to the right, leading them onto the next street in their route. As he turns, though, he suddenly finds himself in front of Dean, who stumbles over him and almost falls. Castiel’s stomach drops when he realizes that he hadn’t told Dean that a turn was coming up, and that’s why they were thrown off.

“Sorry,” Castiel says, adjusting his position so that he and Dean are next to each other again. “Uh, we’re turning right. Or, well, we just did.”

“Better late than never, huh?” Dean mutters, and Castiel feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

The ensuing silence hangs between them almost as limply as the rope does, and Castiel is suddenly slammed with a barrage of uncertain thoughts. Should he talk while they’re running, or just focus on not fucking up more than he already has? Does he only speak up if Dean’s about to run into something? Does he try to steer Dean away from obstacles, or just alert him to them? Is he moving the arm that’s holding the rope too much? Is he running too fast for Dean? Is Dean running too fast for _him_?

“This is a really good street for running,” Castiel finally says, and feels like an idiot the second the words leave his mouth.

“Mmhmm.”

The soles of their sneakers smacking against the pavement are the only noise in the early morning, and to Castiel, it feels a little ominous. He’s half-expecting them to end up as kidnapping victims who will show up on the six o’clock news, but shakes his head to rid himself of that thought.

He focuses on Dean again, and busies himself with studying his profile, his strong jaw, the stubble he hasn’t had a chance to shave yet--Christ, does Dean shave? Is he afraid he’ll accidentally slit his throat? Castiel would be afraid that he’d accidentally slit his throat--the way his running clothes hang loosely off of his toned, skinny limbs.

Dean clears his throat, startling Castiel out of his reverie, and when he speaks, his voice is strained with exertion. “Can I help you?” he asks.

 _Shit_. Just because Dean can’t see him, doesn’t mean that he can’t tell Castiel is practically ogling him. “Are you, uh, good?” he stammers, grasping desperately for an excuse. “Need water or anything?”

Dean doesn’t answer him, but his rapid breathing reminds Castiel that he hasn’t run in a while, so he decides to slow down the pace a little more, thinking Dean would appreciate it.

He doesn’t.

“‘m not... _five_ ,” Dean breathes. “I can fuckin’...run.” With that, he surges forward, tightening the rope between them and leaving Castiel lagging a couple of steps behind. On instinct, Castiel grips the rope tighter and jerks it back as if he were trying to pull back a dog tugging on its leash, causing Dean to stumble backward with a soft, “ _Shit_.”

Castiel’s eyes widen. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean…” His voice trails off once he realizes that he doesn’t know _what_ he didn’t mean to do. He’s got a basic grasp on physics, he knows that if you pull something back, it’ll go back.

Once he’s regained his balance, Dean stares, breathing hard. “I’m not a kid,” he says indignantly. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need warnings for sticks or leaves or fuckin’ _dust mites_. I just need you to be there to make sure I don’t run into big shit, like oh, I don’t know, a fuckin’ _mailbox_? That’s it, but apparently even _that’s_ too hard for you, huh?” Castiel winces at the sting in Dean’s words. “Don’t baby me, I don’t need that shit. Got it?”

Castiel stands there, trying to grapple with the conflicting emotions running wild within him. Dean’s being an asshole, which, if he’s being truthful, Castiel is sort of turned on by. _Sort of_. Only a little. At the same time, though, he’s pissed off. Who the hell does Dean think he is, telling Castiel off like that when Castiel was just trying to help? What, does he think he’s _constantly_ helping blind people run, that he does this for a goddamn _hobby_?

Before he can over think it, Castiel steps forward, harsh words lingering on the edge of his tongue. “Listen,” he says, jabbing a finger against Dean’s chest. “I spend 40 hours a week putting up with people’s shitty attitudes, and you know what? The last thing I want to be doing is putting up with yours, too, especially when I’m just trying to help you. I didn’t sign up for this, and I’m sure as hell not getting _paid_ for it, do you understand that? I’m sorry that I’m trying to fucking _help_ you, and I know I’m going to make mistakes with all of this, but that doesn’t give you the right to tear my head off.” Castiel pauses, takes a deep breath and moves back as far as the rope will allow, then adds sarcastically, “Got it?”

Dean stares at him, but doesn’t say anything. They stand there like two cowboys before a shootout, staring each other down in the middle of the deserted street, and Castiel half-expects some kind of tumbleweed to bounce across their path. As quickly as his anger had blossomed, though, Castiel finds it almost immediately shrinking back into apologies and attempts to smooth things over. His stomach clenches as he feels an overwhelming urge to handle the situation like he always does, and his anxiety increases as he watches Dean. He can see him working through a response in his head, wheels turning as he tries to put together his best comeback, and Castiel opens his mouth to apologize.

“Dean, I’m--”

Dean shakes his head. “Let’s go.”

“Dean--”

“You coming, or you want to explain to Sammy that you let me find my way home alone, and _that’s_ why I got hit by a car or ended up lost three towns over or some shit? Because I’m sure that’ll go over _real_ well.”

The idea of yet another person being pissed at him sends Castiel’s heartbeat into overdrive, and he chews on his lower lip for a second before taking his position next to Dean and clearing his throat. “Okay,” he says. “We need to turn around first, though.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Dean says bitingly. They awkwardly shift positions and start jogging back toward the Winchesters’ house. 

 

“I’m sure you’re overreacting,” Anna says.

Castiel slumps down onto the couch and presses the heels of his hands exasperatedly against his eyes. Dean had barely said two words to Castiel for the rest of the run; when they had arrived back at the Winchesters’, Dean had found his cane quickly and jerked his wrist out of the rope tethering him and Castiel, then marched up to the porch without so much as a glance back.

“He _hates_ me, Anna,” he says. “He obviously doesn’t want me there, and he’s not going to stop being an asshole until I’m gone, so why can’t I just stop going? It’d be better for everyone.”

“I haven’t heard anything from him or Sam requesting that the rest of your sessions be canceled,” Anna says simply. “Have you?”

“No, but--”

“Then you’re still going.”

Castiel feels like he’s ten years old and throwing a temper tantrum, but he groans and covers his face with his forearm.

“Stop being a baby, Castiel,” Anna says. He can hear her rummaging around in the kitchen, trying to find something to make them for dinner. “You’re just exaggerating, I’m _sure_ it’s not as b--”

“And another thing!” Castiel interrupts, shooting bolt upright and glaring at her. “Why didn’t you tell me not to ask him to touch my face?”

Anna stops moving and stares at him with a mixture of horror and pity. “You did _not_ ask if he wanted to touch your face.”

“How the hell was I supposed to know _not_ to?”

Castiel didn’t think it was possible, but Anna’s eyes widen even more, and she all but collapses into a chair at the dining room table. “Jesus, Castiel, I thought it went without saying! Y’know, _common sense_?”

“That’s what happens in movies all the time!” Castiel insists.

Anna throws up her hands. “People survive thousand-foot falls off of _cliffs_ in movies, you idiot!” She worries her lower lip with her teeth before looking at Castiel again; he can tell she’s trying to calm herself down. “At least you didn’t grab his hand and force him to do it,” she murmurs, more to herself than him. “Listen, Castiel--would you like it if somebody asked to touch your face?”

Castiel’s brow furrows. “Not particularly, no.”

“Then neither does Dean. He’s still a _person_ , okay?” She pauses, then adds, “Touch my face.”

“What?”

“Go on,” Anna says, beckoning for him to come closer. “Close your eyes and touch my face.” She juts her face out toward him, and Castiel sighs, closing his eyes and reaching a hesitant hand out toward her face.

His fingers trail along her cheekbones, over the bridge of her nose, and he’s not sure what this exercise is supposed to achieve; it’s just making him feel awkward.

“People think that a blind person can figure out what you look like if they touch your face,” Anna says. Castiel can feel the muscles in her face moving as she speaks, and he pulls his hand away quickly. “What’d you feel?”

He glances down at his fingers, then back to his sister’s face. “Uh, your nose. And your cheeks.” He taps his own cheekbone, under his eye. “Right around there, I think.”

“And can you tell what I look like from that?”

“Anna, I _know_ what you look like.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “Pretend you don’t. Is there anything different-feeling about my face at all? Would you be able to pick me out of a crowd based on what my face felt like?”

Castiel pauses, then shakes his head.

“And neither can Dean.”

Suddenly, Castiel feels like a pile of shit for even suggesting that Dean do something as stupid as that.

“If anything,” Anna continues, “he’ll start to recognize your voice eventually. I mean, who couldn’t, though; it sounds like you’ve been gargling rocks every day for ten years.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Love you, too, Anna,” he says, and she beams. “I’m sure he’ll be recognizing my voice soon enough,” he adds sourly. “I yelled at him today.”

“You what?”

“I yelled at him.” Castiel shakes his head. “I know it was wrong and that I shouldn’t have, you don’t need to lecture me, but he just made me so angry and--”

“Hey,” Anna interrupts, “why’d you yell at him?”

“He yelled at me first,” Castiel says, feeling like a five-year-old who’s in the principal’s office getting ready to tattle on a classmate. “He said I was a shitty guide, told me that I was treating him like a baby and to basically stay away from him as much as possible.”

Anna purses her lips. “That’s rude.”

“I know,” Castiel mutters. “You don’t need to rub it in, Anna.”

“No, I mean that was rude of _him_.”

“I know, but--”

Anna shakes her head. “Listen, Castiel, one of the first things you need to understand is that Dean’s not perfect. He’s not some angelic figure who can do no wrong, and you can’t give him a free pass just because he’s blind, okay? He’s still a person, and if he does something to piss you off, his blindness isn’t an excuse. You have every right to be mad at him if he upsets you, just like he has every right to be mad at you if you upset him.” She gives him a wry smile. “See how that works?”

Castiel sighs. “I...yes, I guess so.”

Anna gives him a soft smile, then walks over and rests a hand against his forearm. “Listen, what if I came to the next run with you? I’ll hang out with Sam, we can chat a little, and maybe things will be better. I’m sure it was just the two of you getting used to each other; it’ll be fine this time. When’s the next time you two are getting together?”

“Day after tomorrow. Five a.m.,” Castiel says, and smirks when he sees Anna’s face go pale.

“Five a.m.,” she repeats faintly. “Right. Well, Sam and I will get donuts or something, and I’ll try not to fall asleep on their couch. Sounds like a plan.”


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel’s next running session with Dean arrives faster than he would have liked, and as he and Anna make their way up to the Winchesters’ porch, he starts genuinely expecting Dean to answer the door, realize it’s him, and then slam it in his face.

Luckily, Sam answers, so Castiel gets to avoid that potential injury. He and Anna exchange pleasantries, and Sam informs him that Dean will be ready in a minute.

While Sam and Anna are discussing what they should pick up from Dunkin’ Donuts, Castiel hears Dean’s cane tapping against the polished wood floors, and even though he’s still annoyed at his actions from last time, Castiel can’t help but fall back on his thoughts that Dean is really, really ridiculously good-looking. He’s practically a real-life Zoolander.

“Hey,” Dean mumbles, rubbing his eye underneath his sunglasses.

“Good morning.” Castiel works to keep his voice steady, swallows hard to keep his heartbeat under control. He glances at Anna, who’s just seeing Dean for the first time, and she’s got a knowing glint in her eye that makes Castiel nervous. She winks at him, and he can feel himself turning at least five shades redder before looking away.

“How long do you think you guys will be?” Sam asks, following Castiel and Dean to the front door.

Castiel shrugs. “Two hours, maybe. Three at the most.”

Dean breathes heavily through his nose, and Castiel bristles. It’s not a sigh, exactly, but it’s not a happy sound, either, and Castiel reinforces his game plan of keeping to himself as much as possible. If Dean doesn’t want any help, then that’s exactly what Castiel will give him.

They make their way down the porch steps and head toward the road, Dean’s cane tapping against the cobblestone again. He reaches out a hand and feels around for the fence before leaving the cane leaning against it. He runs a hand through his hair, then holds it out.

Castiel stares down at it, wondering what the hell Dean is getting at. “Uh, what?”

Dean huffs, and this time Castiel can tell that he’s _definitely_ annoyed. “The _rope_. We still use that, right?”

“Oh. Yes.” Castiel pulls the rope out of his pocket and hands one end to Dean. Dean snatches it and barely even waits for Castiel before starting out at a slow jog, setting their pace for the morning.

Castiel sighs and wishes he was back with Sam and Anna eating Boston cream donuts and drinking coffee.

As they slowly start to pick up the pace, Castiel lets his mind wander. He glances at Dean every so often, but if he’s being honest with himself, it’s more to admire the way his calf muscles move as he runs, the way he tends to chew on his bottom lip when he seems to be struggling. The last thing on his mind is making sure that Dean doesn’t run into anything, and if the last session is any indication, Dean is convinced that he can take care of himself.

Suddenly, there’s a crash, and Castiel feels the rope jerk behind him.

“Son of a _bitch_!”

Castiel whirls around to see a recycling bin overturned and Dean sprawled out across the street on his stomach, trash littered around him.

“ _Shit_ ,” Castiel breathes, darting back to Dean’s side. “Are you okay?” He reaches for Dean’s hand, but stops when he hears Dean suck in a breath through his teeth. He glances down and sees that both of Dean’s palms are bloody with scrapes, bits of gravel sticking out of his skin.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters through gritted teeth. He tucks his knees up close to his chest and Castiel winces as he watches him gingerly touch his kneecaps, which have been given the same treatment as his palms. His bottom lip is split, and Castiel resists the urge to wipe away the blood with his thumb when he notices that there’s blood eeking out of Dean’s nose, as well.

“I--I’m sorry,” Castiel stammers as Dean slowly gets to his feet, flinching at every other movement. His hand ghosts Dean’s back, and Dean turns his head to the side and spits a mouthful of blood onto the sidewalk before turning to Castiel.

“They chipped?” He exposes his blood-stained teeth to Castiel, who stands there uncertainly.

“Uh—”

“Not too reassuring there, Doctor Quinn,” Dean snaps. “My teeth. They chipped?”

Oh. Castiel peers in closer to Dean’s mouth, and aside from the red tint, his teeth seem fine, and he tells Dean as such.

“Good.” Dean runs his tongue quickly over his teeth in confirmation and holds his hand out toward Cas. “I’m assuming we’re done, right?”

“I...yeah, I think so. Those cuts should be cleaned sooner rather than later.” Castiel swallows hard and hands Dean the rope. Dean holds it gingerly in his injured palm and Castiel immediately turns them around, back toward the Winchesters’ house. They walk along in silence for a few moments, Dean trying to hide how much his injuries sting, but Castiel can hear every single time he sucks in a quick, pained breath, and his guilt piles up in his gut with each one.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he says again. “I should’ve been paying m--”

Dean scoffs and waves Castiel’s apology away, which takes Castiel by surprise. He expected a verbal beat-down, Dean chewing him out and swearing at him in the middle of the street again, but a laugh was the _last_ thing he thought he’d hear. “I’ve had worse,” he says. “Sammy ran me into a fuckin’ light post once when we were first starting with all this shit. Now _that_ \--” Dean barks out a quick cross between a laugh and a scoff “--was bad. Kid almost broke my nose with that one.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Really, really, Beverly Cleary.”

Castiel wrinkles his nose and stops short, causing Dean to stumble a little. “The author?” Castiel asks hesitantly.

Dean takes a second to process their past few exchanges, and his cheeks go pink when he remembers what he said; warmth fills Castiel’s stomach at just how endearing Dean’s blush is; almost immediately afterwards, though, he berates himself--just a few days ago, Dean was the definition of an asshole, it’s not fair for Castiel to get butterflies around him, goddamn it.

“Uh...yeah.” He moves to rub his free hand against the back of his neck, but quickly pulls it back when he remembers that his palm looks like it got in a catfight. “I used to say it to Sammy a lot when we were kids, because he’d always be reading her books. Guess it just slipped out.”

“You two are close, huh?”

Dean nods. “Yeah. I don’t really know what I’d do without him,” he says after a pause. “Don’t tell him that, though,” he adds sharply, and Castiel laughs.

“Your secret’s safe with me, Dean.”

It’s gone almost as quickly as it appears, but Castiel swears he catches the hint of a smile playing on Dean’s lips, which does nothing to abate the persistent warmth making itself at home in his gut.

“Listen,” Dean says, and Castiel isn’t sure, but he could swear that Dean almost sounds a little bit _nervous_. “I’m, uh, about the other day. I was a dick. I shouldn’t have yelled at you, you were only trying to help, like you said. I mean, you were doing a shitty job of it,” he lets out a huff of laughter, “but still. And, well, yeah.”

Okay, _now_ Castiel can act like a crushing teenager all he wants.

Castiel smiles down at his shoes at the stammering apology. “Thank you, Dean.” He pauses, and for a split second considers staying silent, but opts to tell Dean what’s on his mind, as well. “And just so you know,” he says slowly, “I didn’t agree with Sam about this.”

He can feel Dean stiffen slightly, but he doesn’t stop walking. “About what?”

“Him springing this whole thing on you,” Castiel says. “When I came to your house that day, I thought you had requested it, that you wanted to do this. And, don’t tell Sam this, but I think it could’ve been handled better.”

Dean huffs. “You can say that again.”

“But,” Castiel continues, “from what little I know about you, I don’t think you would’ve gone for this if he had asked your permission first, so maybe that really was the best way to go about it.”

Dean opens his mouth to retort, but before he can, Castiel cuts him off. “It’s clear that he loves you, and that he wants your happiness more than his own. I’ve only known him for a week, and that’s crystal clear to me, so I’m sure it’s clear to you, too.” Dean doesn’t answer, and Cas finishes his thoughts. “He wants what’s best for you, and I really think that this is it.”

Dean opens his mouth to respond, then closes it. There’s a pause, and Dean mumbles, “Maybe.”

They continue to walk in silence, and Castiel has to prevent his mind from wandering as he leads Dean down the street, extra wary of any potential obstacles that could trip them up. The sun is starting to peek up from between the trees, and Castiel feels a pang of disappointment at the fact that soon it won’t just be him and Dean here in this quiet little world.

“When’d you start running?” Dean asks, his voice breaking the quiet again.

Castiel furrows his brow at the question as he tries to remember when exactly he started running, an activity that’s become such a staple in his life that he can’t imagine a day without it.

“Elementary school,” he says, flashing back to images of his feet pounding against the pavement as he runs as fast as he can, trying to evade bullies and sometimes, just the world around him. “During recess. And then I just...never really stopped. It was a nice distraction from anything that upset me, and it sounds cheesy, but now I can’t really imagine my life without it.”

Dean nods. “Wish I got into it that early. Took me way longer.”

“When was it for you?”

“When my folks died.” Dean’s answer is so blunt, Castiel feels like he’s been punched in the face. “Car crash,” Dean continues before Castiel can respond. “About five or so years ago, during that really shitty winter with the ice storm that knocked out the power for a week. It’s how we got the house, basically.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Castiel wishes he could think of something better, more comforting to say, but those words are the only ones that come to mind. It doesn’t seem to bother Dean though.

“Yeah. It wasn’t--” He pauses, searching for the right words. “I didn’t handle it well,” he amends. “I co--”

“Curb,” Castiel interrupts, “to your left.” He’d suddenly noticed that they’d swerved a little from their straightforward route, and Dean, walking on the inside of Castiel closest to the sidewalk, was about to trip over the edge of the curb. Dean stops and takes a few tentative steps to the right until Castiel gives him affirmation that he’s good, then grins to himself.

“You’re gettin’ better at this,” he says.

Castiel chuckles. “You say as I bring you home with a bloody face and scraped knees.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Kinky,” he says, and Castiel is suddenly grateful Dean can’t see the way his cheeks go deep red at that.

“You...didn’t handle it well?” Castiel says hesitantly, trying to get the conversation back on track to Dean’s history instead of his own awkward blunders.

Dean shakes his head. “Lots of booze, not much else. I was like that for a while, sleeping all day, drinking all night, would’ve gotten fired if my boss wasn’t a family friend. Sammy was actually the one who snapped me out of it.”

“Really?”

“Mhmm.” Castiel glances down and watches as Dean’s fingers play with the knotted rope in his hand. “I don’t even remember why running stayed in my head; I hated it when I was younger. But there were a shit-ton of things he kept begging me to try out, and that was the one that stuck--” he shrugs “--and here we are. Well, kinda.”

“It helped you deal with your emotions?”

“Guess so. And it was cheaper than therapy, which was Sam’s first choice.” Dean huffs out a laugh before tilting his head up toward the sky. “Hey, what does it look like right now?”

“What?” Castiel asks, startled.

“The sky, dude. It’s already getting warmer, so is it sunny? Does it look like it’s gonna start raining? Is there a _double rainbow_ up there?” Dean stretches his free hand into a jazz hand, and Castiel grins. He glances down at their sneakered feet, which have somehow fallen into a synchronized stride, then back up at the sky.

“You should be ashamed of how ancient that reference is,” Castiel says, and Dean chuckles. “But it’s blue,” he continues slowly, racking his brain for adjectives on how to describe the particular hues of blue and white and pink that are streaked across the sky, but then remembering that Dean actually does have memories to compare colors to, so he won’t be completely lost. “Like the color people use for baby showers when they’re expecting a boy. There are some clouds--one in particular is hiding half of the sun, but I think it’ll leave soon. They’re white all over, no signs of rain.” He peeks back down quickly to make sure that Dean’s not going to run into anything else, then continues. “There’s a little bit of the sunrise left, so there’s some pink, too. It’s nice. The colors aren’t too bright; they look a little bit like watered-down paint. Calming. It’s…” Castiel’s voice trails off as the implications of what he’s doing suddenly hit him. He feels guilty, like he’s bragging, telling Dean about something he can’t see. “I’m sorry.”

Dean freezes, and his brow furrows before he lifts a foot gingerly. “Jesus, I didn’t step in dog shit again, did I?”

“What? I d--” Castiel is leaning over to inspect the sole of Dean’s sneaker when he reminds himself that no, that’s not the reason he’s apologizing. He surveys the sole quickly--can’t be too careful--before turning his attention back to Dean. “No, no, you didn’t.”

“Good,” Dean says, breathing a sigh of relief. “Then why are you sorry?”

It sounds stupid in Castiel’s head, and he struggles to put it into words. “I just...I feel like it’s unfair of me to be describing these things to you when you can’t see them.”

“I asked you to.”

“Still,” Castiel says. “It feels like I’m rubbing it in your face or something. Bragging. Dangling it over you when you and I both know that you can’t have it.” He doesn’t realize Dean has trailed behind him until the rope goes taut between them; Castiel turns and takes in Dean’s indignant, unamused posture. His head is tilted to the side, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You’re kidding me.”

“I...no,” Castiel says uncertainly.

Dean sighs. “Please don’t do this, man. I already have enough people pitying me, or feeling guilty about shit that’s not even their fault. Yeah, it’s weird, I get it, but I _asked_ you to describe it. So you don’t get to feel like an asshole for doing something that I asked you to do, okay?”

Castiel worries his bottom lip with his teeth, considering Dean’s request. He already finds it difficult _not_ to pity Dean, but if that’s what he wants, that’s what he’ll try to do. “Okay,” he finally says. “I’m s--no more feeling guilty.”

“Good.” Dean’s face relaxes into a teasing grin. “Besides, I like the way you describe things; Sammy doesn’t bother with _shades_. To him, the sky’s just blue.”

Castiel’s heart inexplicably starts beating faster at the outlandish compliment, and he smiles. “Thank you.”

The silence resumes as they walk for a few minutes more, and when the Winchesters’ pale blue house comes into view, Castiel is surprised to feel a slight pang of disappointment. He’d like to walk with Dean more, maybe describe the trees lining the streets, or the hideous shade of orange that’s painted over their neighbor's’ front door. Instead, he pulls them to a gentle stop at the beginning of the cobblestone path and says, “We’re here.”

He had been careful to position Dean as close as possible to his cane, and Dean’s fingers reach out, searching until they brush against the white cane, when they maneuver to the top and wrap themselves around its black grip. Dean lets go of the rope but doesn’t walk ahead of Castiel as they make their way up the path and to the steps. As he ascends them, Castiel thinks he can see Dean mouthing the numbers-- _one, two, three, four_ \--until he gets to the porch.

Castiel is about to reach out and knock, but the door opens before he can. Anna and Sam are standing in the doorway, looking at them with excited, hopeful expressions that almost immediately turn to ones of shock and confusion.

Right. Dean’s face.

“What happened?” Anna asks, her face paler than usual. Her voice has taken on the too-high intonation it does when she’s panicked.

“Dean, are you okay?” Sam asks worriedly, taking a step out onto the porch toward his brother.

Castiel opens his mouth to start a wave of apologies--it’s his fault, he should’ve been paying more attention, he’ll help Dean get cleaned up, it won’t happen again--but he’s cut off before he can begin by a chuckle from Dean.

“Cas is a great coach.”

 

Dean called him Cas.

He’s never had a nickname before, but the more he thinks about it, the more he warms up to it. It’s such a simple word, just three little letters, but for some reason, it just works.

Cas replays the moment in his mind as he starts his Google search, the only light in his apartment coming from the screen of his laptop. _Cas_. He likes it, it has a nice ring to it.

There are a ton of things he needs to start researching, and Cas decides to start by typing “training for a marathon” into Google’s search bar. Almost immediately, he’s barraged with about 93,000,000 results telling him the best way to train, the best after-workout snacks, how to build his diet around his running regimen, and more.

“Shit,” Cas breathes, chewing on his lower lip as he clicks through to one of the pages. He’s momentarily overwhelmed by all of the information, but grabs a notebook and pen and starts scribbling down the most important aspects each website has to offer, breaking them down into three groups: food, running and stretching, and prep for the actual day of the marathon. He also digs through his bag and unearths another folder Anna had given him, this one stuffed full of information about how to be a sighted guide paired with a blind runner. Sure, he and Dean can manage a few miles on a mostly-empty street, but Cas figures that will change dramatically once they’re crammed in with tens of thousands of other runners.

He and Dean will be starting at the same time as everyone else, and people will know that he’s Dean’s guide because he’ll be wearing a neon yellow bib that says just that. Cas’ heart plummets, though, when he reads the next sentence--he’ll have to alert people to Dean’s presence as they pass.

He’ll have to yell.

Cas swallows hard, a lifetime of report card comments of him being too quiet and snide remarks for him to speak up flooding back into his head. He doesn’t like drawing attention to himself, and if anyone’s comments on his voice are to be considered, he _can’t_ do it, either.

He feels like a piece of shit; Dean’s the one who’s blind, and all Cas will have to do is yell something like, “Blind runner coming through!” or “Blind runner behind you on your left!” and yet _he’s_ the one panicking. Cas shoves the thoughts to the back of his mind, opting instead to take down even more notes on which foods are best to eat before and after long runs.

He’s already been shoved out of his comfort zone with this whole thing, so what the hell--he’ll just push himself out a little bit more.

At least, that’s what he hopes.

 

“Cas?”

Sam sounds surprised, and Cas can’t blame him; he and Dean weren’t scheduled to run today, and here he is, the morning of one of their few days off, standing on the Winchesters’ front porch with two armfuls of groceries.

“Hello, Sam.” He gives the younger Winchester a small smile while hefting the paper bags a little higher up in his arms.

“Uh, hi.” He studies the bags for a few seconds before adding, “What’s up?”

“Is Dean home?”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure he’ll be in the mood for running.”

Cas shakes his head. “No running, it’s just food.” He glances down pointedly at the bags that feel like they’re getting heavier by the second, and Sam finally catches onto Cas’ silent request.

“Oh! Dude, you should’ve said something earlier,” Sam says, grabbing for the bags and heading toward the kitchen. “Dean’s in the living room.”

Cas makes his way down the hallway toward the living room, which is silent, and Cas wonders for a second if Dean is still asleep. The old wood of the floor creaks under his feet, and Cas hesitantly peeks into the room.

Dean’s sprawled out on the couch, flat on his back. His legs are crossed at the ankles, resting on one of the armrests, and his head is resting on the other one. There’s an iPhone sitting on his chest, moving slowly up and down with the rhythm of his breathing, and Cas watches, momentarily entranced by the simple way Dean is just _there_.

Still unsure if Dean is awake, Cas takes a step closer and notices earbuds resting in Dean’s ears. Jack is lying on the floor, and Dean’s fingers are absently scratching at the dog’s black fur.

“Uh, Dean?”

There’s no answer, and Cas clears his throat. “Dean?”

Dean’s eyes open slowly, and he pulls the earbuds away in one quick movement. “Sammy?” he asks.

“No, it’s, uh, Cas.”

Dean stops scratching Jack at that, pulling himself upright and looking in the direction of Cas’ voice. “Cas?” he repeats. “Wait, what day is it?”

“We’re not running today,” Cas says quickly.

“Oh, thank fuck.” Dean flops back down onto the couch and starts to put his earbuds back on. “I was just getting to this part when--”

“But we _do_ have something to do today,” Cas interrupts.

“Yeah, I’ve gotta finish my book.”

Cas’ brow furrows. “Your bo--no, Dean. We’re making food.”

Dean perks up immediately at the mention of food, and Cas grins. “What’d you have in mind?” he asks.

“I brought a bunch of different kinds of healthy foods, food that’ll help give you energy and make it easier to run. I figured we could go through them and figure out what you like and don’t like, and go from there. Maybe put together some meals for the week.”

Dean’s expression sours almost immediately at the mention of healthy foods. “Did Sam put you up to this?”

“Uh, no, I Googled it. Food is an important thing to consider if you’re planning on running a marathon, Dean.”

Dean sighs and looks forlornly at his iPhone. “I was just getting to a good part.”

“You could finish listening to it, if you want,” Cas says. “I can wait. Get things ready in the kitchen and everyt--”

“Rude,” Dean says simply. He gets to his feet and stretches a little, toeing around the couch until he pokes Jack, then taking care to step over the dog. “I’m not letting you cook for me while I just lay around. Dude, come on.”

“You don’t have any problem doing that to me,” Sam calls from the hallway, and Cas grins.

“Fuck off, Sam.”

Dean takes the lead and Cas follows him back down the hallway and into the kitchen. He watches the confident, easy way Dean walks, how his hand ghosts along walls and door frames until they make it to the kitchen. The more he watches, the more Cas is fascinated by the way Dean moves, gliding his hand across the countertops until his hand comes into contact with the bags of groceries Sam had set down.

Without thinking about it, Cas closes his eyes and takes a few hesitant steps forward, hands groping clumsily for something, anything to tell him where he is, and promptly stubs his toe on something hard. He sucks in air through his teeth as his eyes fly open, and he stares down at one of the legs of the kitchen table.

“Not as easy as it looks, huh?” Dean says. His back is turned to Cas, but Cas can hear the smile in his voice.

“No,” Cas says, grabbing his foot and awkwardly balancing as he rubs his toe for a few seconds. “Not exactly.”

Dean chuckles and starts digging through the bag. “What is all this?”

Cas glances at the bag in Dean’s hand. “Kale,” he says, which causes Dean to promptly toss the bag away like he’s been scalded. “Oh, come on,” Cas says, walking gingerly over to Dean and reaching for the bag, “it’s not that bad. You might actually like it.”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that, Cas.” He pauses, then adds, “What else is in there?”

“Hmm.” Cas sets the kale down before reaching back into the bag, glancing at every item before adding it to the pile on the counter. “Eggs, almonds, some bagels, uh, sweet potatoes...cereal, some salmon and chicken, berries, bananas, gr--”

“Okay, okay,” Dean interrupts, holding up his hands. “I get the idea, Emeril. So, what, you gonna shit on my eating habits, replace all my meat with fish?”

“Well, technically, fish _is_ a kind of meat.”

“Technically, fish _is_ a kind of meat,” Dean mimics in a high-pitched voice, and Cas grins. He’s aboutto reach into the bag for something else when he feels his fingers brush Dean’s, and this time, he’s the one who acts like he’s been scalded.

“Sorry,” Cas mumbles quickly, withdrawing his hand and busying himself with trying to find a salad bowl.

“‘s all right,” Dean says, and Cas isn’t sure if he’s imagining it, but for a split second, he’s sure that Dean has shuffled a few steps to the side, closer to him, and his face goes hot.

Cas clears his throat, mentally kicking himself. They were doing so well, things weren’t awkward at all, and then he had to go _touch Dean’s goddamn hand_. “So, uh, why don’t you tell me what your normal eating habits are like, and we can start from there.”

“Good food,” Dean says, and this time, he definitely steps closer to Cas, and Cas straightens immediately when he feels Dean’s hand ghost along his lower back. Can is about to instinctively lean into the touch when Dean’s hand is gone again, and he’s moved over to the fridge, which is conveniently right next to Cas, and Cas’ heart sinks. Dean was just trying to get to the fridge. That was all.

Cas takes a breath and quickly shakes his head to collect his thoughts. “Do you mean food that’s good for you, or just food that _tastes_ good?”

Dean shrugs. “I don’t eat Sammy’s rabbit food shit, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Then what _do_ you eat?”

Dean chuckles. “Not that.” He opens the fridge, and Cas peeks over Dean’s shoulder to look inside. The fridge is divided almost perfectly in half, one side full of healthy foods--salads, chicken, eggs, a nice variety of fruits and vegetables--while the other is full of everything else--hamburger meat, hot dogs, mozzarella cheese, bacon.

Cas gapes for a few seconds, but recovers quickly. “I’m guessing your side of the fridge doesn’t have green things in it?”

“Nope,” he says proudly.

Cas stares at him disbelievingly. “You’re telling me that you run on a diet of what, cheeseburgers and bacon?” He’s not sure if he’s more amazed at the fact that Dean can run with that kind of diet, or the fact that none of the greasy, fatty food--absolutely _none_ of it--seems to have packed itself onto Dean’s slim, muscled body.

“And pie,” Dean adds, digging around in the fridge and reemerging with a bottle of orange juice. “And beer. And I’m not gonna say no to pasta.” He takes a long swig of the orange juice then grins at Cas.

“Well, then,” Cas says, chewing contemplatively on his lower lip. “Looks like we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“It’s not going to _attack_ you, Dean,” Cas says, watching Dean poke a fork hesitantly at a small salad Cas had put together. An hour--and ten different failed recipe suggestions later--Cas has finally convinced Dean to try a kale salad with chicken, chopped apples, and almonds. Dean had scrutinized the dish like a suspicious toddler, his eyes narrow and distrusting, before Cas had finally convinced him to take a bite.

“Don’t be so sure,” he says, finally spearing a piece of the greens and popping it into his mouth. He drops the fork into the bowl and leans back against the counter, arms folded across his chest. He chews thoughtfully for a moment, then gives his verdict. “This shit’s not bad.”

Cas grins. “Told you so. And it’s better for you than, well, than most things.”

Dean looks at him, unamused. “Listen, Cas, you can _try_ to get rid of my good food--”

“You mean your heart attacks waiting to happen?” Cas interrupts, grabbing an armful of vegetables and opening the fridge to deposit them inside.

Dean points at him. “Yeah, those. You can _try_ , but there’s no way in hell I’m not eating a burger for the next twelve weeks.”

“Have fun with your ridiculous stomach cramps, then,” Cas says simply. He finishes putting away the vegetables and straightens, glancing over his shoulder and seeing Dean’s face go pale at the mention of cramps. He’s sure it’s because Dean is thinking back to last week, when, despite Cas’ protests, he thought it’d be a good idea to have a few slices of meat lover’s pizza before one of their ten-mile runs, and Cas smirks at the memory. He closes the fridge door, and then notices one of the few photos secured to it.

“You look upset,” Cas says, studying the photo.

“Well, yeah, you just told me I was gonna get goddamn stomach cramps if I ate one of my favorite foods, so of course I’m gonna--”

“No, no, I mean in this picture.”

Dean swallows one more forkful of salad before ambling over to Cas’ side at the fridge. He doesn’t take his cane with him, opting instead to use his hand to guide him; once it touches the fridge, he leans against it, doing his best impression of The Fonz. “Which one?” he asks curiously.

The picture was taken on a street, one that Cas quickly recognizes as the one the Winchesters live on. Dean is standing in front of a bright yellow sign that says BLIND PERSON in bold black letters, and he looks less than enthused. He’s got his sunglasses on, and he’s giving the middle finger to whoever is taking the picture, presumably Sam.

“You’re standing next to a blind person sign,” Cas says slowly, “and flipping off whoever’s taking the picture.”

Dean barks out a laugh and pushes himself away from the fridge. “Sam thought it’d be funny,” he says. “Hilarious. Obviously.”

“I like it,” Cas says with finality.

He doesn’t miss the way Dean’s cheeks go pink at the comment. “Yeah, well,” Dean says almost shyly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sam’ll be happy to hear that.”

Cas smiles, first at the photograph, then at Dean himself. Suddenly, he’s struck with an idea. “Dean,” he says slowly, “you like French fries, right?”

Dean brightens at the mention of junk food, and he nods. “Damn right.”

“Have you ever had sweet potato fries?”

Dean wrinkles his nose, and warmth floods Cas’ chest again at the sight of Dean looking so adorable. “No,” he says hesitantly, and Cas nods to himself before turning and rummaging through the pile of groceries on the counter.

“I think we should try those next,” he says, finding the sweet potatoes and placing them on the countertop. “They’re very good, and a little healthier for you than regular fries. They could be a good alternative for you.”

Dean purses his lips thoughtfully before finally nodding. “I’m trusting you not to kill me, Cas,” he says. He holds out his hand. “Potato me.”

Cas chuckles and hands him a potato, watching the way Dean’s hand wraps around the vegetable, his fingers exploring every nook and cranny in its skin. He tosses it from one hand to another, and Cas raises his eyebrows.

“Impressive,” he says.

Dean scoffs. “What, that?” He tosses the potato again, and then a few more times for good measure. “It’s not that hard, Cas. I’m sure you can do it with your eyes closed, too.”

Cas huffs out a laugh. “I’m not very coordinated,” he says. “Where do you keep your knives?”

“I can do it,” Dean says, taking a few steps to the side until he’s standing over the cutting board situated on the counter. “What, just cut ‘em like regular fries?”

"Dean, it's okay, I'll just..." Cas' voice trails off when he notices Dean stiffen.

"Listen, Cas," Dean says, his voice tight, and Cas can tell he's trying hard not to snap, "wanna trust me on this? I know what I things I can and can’t do, and cutting shit is one of them." He remains silent for a moment, and Cas is about to apologize when Dean repeats, “So, like regular fries?"

"Yes."

Cas tilts his head and watches as Dean feels around until he finds a drawer with a small tag on the handle, then opens it, pulls out a knife, and starts slicing the potatoes. He cuts slowly but certainly, and Cas is momentarily entranced by the methodic way Dean moves.

“I...do you have a tray?”

Dean nods and points his socked foot toward the stove. “Under there. How many of these should I cut?”

“Two should be good.” Cas crouches down and opens the drawer under the stove with a creak, digging around until he finds an old cookie sheet and places it on the counter. “Aluminum foil?”

“In the drawer across from the fridge,” Dean says. Cas nods and makes his way over to the drawer when Dean suddenly lets out a pained yell that makes him stop in his tracks. Cas whirls around immediately and stares at Dean, who’s hunched over the counter, one hand clutching the other.

“Dean?” Cas gasps. “Dean, what happened?”

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” he mutters through gritted teeth, hunching in even further on himself and ignoring Cas’ question. “ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.”

“Sam!” Cas shouts before edging in next to Dean. “Dean, let me see how bad it is.”

Dean sucks in a breath through his teeth, shifting so that Cas can’t see his hand. Cas puts a hand on his forearm, and that’s when Dean slowly turns toward him, eyes squeezed shut. Slowly, very slowly, he lifts his hand to show Cas the injured one, and Cas comes face-to-face with Dean’s middle finger.

Cas gapes at it, staring at Dean’s blood-free finger, then up at Dean, who’s grinning wider than Cas has ever seen. “I…”

“That’s for thinking I couldn’t cut shit on my own,” Dean says smugly.

“A...are you...” Cas stammers. He looks up quickly to see a panicked Sam heading their way, Rudy following close behind, then turns back to Dean. “I almost had a heart attack, Dean!”

“Oh, shit.” Cas turns around to see Sam leaning against the entryway to the kitchen, looking a little annoyed at Dean, but otherwise completely unfazed. “Was it the cutting his finger thing?”

Cas stares at Sam, his eyes wide. “He’s done this before?”

Dean laughs. “Sammy nearly passed out when I did it to him.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s part of his whole ‘how dare you think I need help’ routine. And it’s also just him being an asshole.” Dean’s smile widens, and Sam flips him off. Sam turns back to Cas and gives him an apologetic smile. “Just ignore him. He’ll get bored once he doesn’t get a reaction anymore.”

“And bleed out when he actually does hurt himself, but we just think he’s faking it,” Cas mutters, and Sam laughs.

“Jesus, that’s cold, guys,” Dean says, pouting.

“Yeah, yeah, finish making your food.” Sam rolls his eyes, gives Cas a reassuring smile, then leaves them alone in the kitchen again.

Cas takes a deep breath before turning back to Dean, who’s palming around until he finds the knife and potato again, then resumes cutting, finishing with one potato and immediately starting in on the second.

“C’mon,” Dean says in between chops, “you gotta admit, it was pretty funny.”

“I suppose, if you think giving someone a heart attack is funny.”

Dean grins widely. “The funniest.”

Cas rolls his eyes, then goes back to getting the foil ready. He feels guilty for thinking so, and he doesn’t _want_ to think so after the stunt Dean just pulled, but he’s surprised at how good of a job Dean’s done cutting the first sweet potato. Somehow, Dean must be able to sense what he’s thinking, because Cas hears him chuckle a little, then he says, “Not bad for a blind guy, huh?”

Cas accidentally rips the foil in a jagged, misshapen line at that, and he can feel his cheeks go hot. “No, I, uh…”

Dean turns to face him, wearing that goddamn little smirk again. “Relax, Cas. It’s a joke.”

“You mean like you joking that you cut off your finger?” Cas asks dryly.

“Exactly!”

Cas rolls his eyes, but still feels the need to apologize. “Sorry. It’s still just a little--”

“Weird?” Dean nods knowingly, turning back around and grabbing the second half of the potato to continue slicing. “Yeah, you’ll get used to it,” he says, and Cas feels glad, glad that Dean plans on keeping him around long enough for him to get used to it. He glances down at the jagged aluminum foil and smiles to himself before ripping a new piece and flattening it over the cookie sheet.

“Olive oil?” Cas asks, already having spotted the salt and pepper sitting on top of the stove. Dean motions with his chin toward the cabinet next to his head. Cas reaches over his shoulder, rummages around for the bottle of olive oil, then heads back to his station in front of the cookie sheet. He doesn’t realize he’d be holding his breath until he lets out a sigh.

“Find it?”

Cas nods, unscrewing the cap and starting to drizzle the liquid over the foil.

“Cas?”

“Hmm?” He glances up, and Dean is looking at him expectantly.

“Did you find it?”

Cas furrows his brow. “Yes, I told you I—oh.” He can feel the color drain away from his cheeks as he realizes that Dean couldn’t see his nod, and therefore didn’t know if he found the olive oil or not. Dean bursts out laughing.

“Jesus, you’re worse than Sam.”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas says, flustered. “I’ll make sure I voice everything--”

Dean waves him off, then scoops up a handful of sliced sweet potato and asks, “Now what?”

Cas is about to reach over and grab the fries, tell Dean that he’ll take it from here, but at the last second, his brain reminds him, _Trust him._ “You can start putting them on the tray if you want,” he says. “It’s sitting on the stove, there’s some olive oil spread over it already.”

“On it.” Dean grabs a few more fries before edging over to the stove, using his free hand to guide himself until he’s positioned himself in front of the tray. Cas peers over Dean’s shoulder, trying to keep his distance as he watches Dean lay the fries out on the foil. “Fix ‘em if you need to.” He pauses, then adds, “I can feel you hovering, Cas,” and Cas takes a surprised step back.

“Right. Sorry.” Cas waits until Dean’s done and has moved away from the tray before rearranging the fries so that they’re in even rows on the foil, then starts adding sprinkles of salt and pepper. Once he’s satisfied, he glances at the bottle of olive oil and then at Dean, who’s now leaning against the counter. He’s trying to look casual, nonchalant, but Cas can already tell that he’s itching for something to do.

“Want to add some more olive oil?” he asks, unsure of how to give Dean the bottle.

Dean beams and holds out his hand. “Hell yeah, I do.” Cas smiles and hands Dean the bottle, watching as Dean’s fingers travel up its neck to make sure that it’s still open, then as he runs his free hand along the countertop until he figures out where the tray is. He drizzles some more oil over the fries for a few seconds before taking a step back, then nodding, satisfied. “Perfect.”

“Good.” They both reach for the tray to pop it into the oven, but when Cas feels Dean’s hands, he pulls his own back quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, the oven is preheated, so it’s ready to go.”

Dean pauses, then moves his hands so that they’re on only one side of the tray. “Here,” he says, motioning for Cas to come closer and take the other side. “We both made ‘em, it’s only fair we both get to do the honors, right?” He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Plus, I mean, just in case I miss the oven or whatever. You can...I don’t know, steer it.”

“All right,” Castiel says hesitantly, gripping his side of the tray. Dean reaches down to open the oven door, and they start to maneuver the tray down toward the rack. A blast of heat hits Cas in the face as they bend down in front of the oven, moving slowly to avoid dropping the tray, and for a second, Cas feels stupid. This would be so much easier if one of them did it--but if just one of them did it, he wouldn’t have an excuse to be this close to Dean.

And Cas will take any excuse he can get.

They slide the tray onto the rack, being careful to avoid getting burned, and Dean closes the oven door with a flourish. “Sammy’s not getting any of these, just so you know,” he says, and Cas laughs.

“No?”

“‘Course not! He didn’t slave over a hot oven for however long it took to make these like we did. Now come on, show me some of this other healthy shit while we wait for those.”

They spend the next twenty minutes going over the rest of the items Cas had brought, Cas trying to convince Dean that broccoli really isn’t that bad and Dean declaring Cas an abomination for thinking fried chicken is average at best. While they talk, Cas catches himself studying Dean’s eyes--how they still seem to go bright whenever he hears something that interests or amuses him, the way the skin around them crinkles when he laughs--and Cas suddenly wants to spend all his time at the Winchester house, so he could see Dean without his sunglasses whenever he wanted.

The oven timer dings suddenly, interrupting Dean’s lecture to Cas on the merits of ice cream over frozen yogurt, and Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Jesus, those smell good.”

Cas smiles. “Told you,” he says as he grabs an oven mitt and places the tray on top of the stove. The fries crackle and pop as they start to cool down, and Cas’ heart absolutely does _not_ jump at how good Dean looks when his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

Cas starts looking around for a plate when he hears a scraping of a spatula against foil, and turns back around to see that Dean is one step ahead of him, scooping the fries onto a plate. “That’s it,” he says once Dean the sheet is empty, and Dean nods before setting the plate on the counter and grabbing a couple of fries. He hands one to Cas, keeping the other for himself.

“Cheers,” Dean says, holding his fry in the air in salute before popping it into his mouth. Cas does the same before watching the way Dean’s jaw moves as he chews, then swallows contentedly. “Shit,” he says, reaching for another.

“I take it you like them?” Cas asks, pleased. The sweet and salty taste is still running rampant in his mouth, and Cas helps himself to some more of his and Dean’s handiwork.

Dean huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Just a little bit, yeah.” He eats a couple more fries before adding, “They good as you hoped?”

Cas pauses. “They’re perfect,” he finally says, hoping that Dean can hear the smile in his voice.

Judging by the way Dean’s cheeks go pink, the hint of a shy smile playing on his lips, Cas is pretty sure he did.


	4. Chapter 4

“We’re taking a bit of a different route today,” Cas says as he stretches. He hasn’t stopped thinking about the kitchen interactions between the two of them from the other day, but he tries to shove those thoughts to the back of his mind. Dean hadn’t been looking for a romantic partner; he was looking for a running partner, and that was it. No use getting worked up over something that wouldn’t happen.

Dean raises his eyebrows behind his shades before reaching down to touch his toes. “Yeah?”

“I thought it would be good to start running a route you’re not familiar with,” Cas explains, watching, transfixed, as the ridges of Dean’s spine appear under his shirt. “You’re pretty accustomed to running in your neighborhood, I’m guessing?”

“Know it like the back of my hand,” Dean says proudly.

“That’s the problem. I think we need to start switching things up, so we can test if we’re actually compatible, working well together. You can se...decide…” Cas’ voice trails off hesitantly at the mention of the “s-word,” but at Dean’s unamused look, he quickly corrects himself. “ _See._ You can see if there’s anything you want me to work on when it comes to being your guide. Alerting you to things we may not have thought of or come across yet.”

Dean grins and holds his hand out for his end of the rope. “Sounds good, Usain Bolt.”

“He’s a sprinter,” Cas says automatically. “He doesn’t compete in mara--”

Dean interrupts him with an awkward clap that Cas assumes is supposed to have landed on his shoulder, but ends up cuffing him in the back of the head instead. “Just take the compliment, dude.”

 

As it turns out, Cas’ instinct had been correct--once they make it to the newer part of their route, the two of them are stumbling and miscommunicating more than Cas could believe.

“Low-hanging tree branch on the left.”

“How close are we-- _shit_!”

“Uh, you just hit it.”

“Duly noted, Cas, thanks.”

“Sorry.”

Cas waits to warn Dean about turns, curbs, or obstacles at the last second, which doesn’t give Dean enough time to react without stumbling or tripping himself up, but they finally figure out something that vaguely resembles a plan.

“Turning right,” Cas says as they approach a curve, “in three, two, one…”

And they turn. No swearing, no stumbling, no falls. Cas wants to stop and hug Dean, have a quick moment to celebrate the fact that Dean’s knees and palms aren’t scraped up, that they’re both still on their feet.

“Fuck yeah!” Dean shouts, pumping his free hand in the air. “Look at us, Cas. Couple’a champions right here.” He smacks Cas’ arm with the hand holding the rope, and Cas stumbles a little. Cas laughs, sucking in a triumphant breath through his nose as he regains his footing and they continue down the street. He glances over at Dean, whose energy has seemed to increase tenfold following the tiny victory, and smiles.

“Are there any more turns coming up?” Dean asks. “‘m ready to kick more of ‘em in the ass, let’s go.”

“I’ll keep you posted,” Cas says between pants.

They continue their run, Dean cheering every time they successfully maneuver around another turn, and Cas wonders if Dean feels the same way he does--exhausted, sure, but just having Dean running along next to him makes him feel like he could run an extra mile or two as fast as he can.

For a few seconds, Cas wonders how Dean does it. If he couldn’t see, he’d be rife with anxiety, flinching at every step as they run, constantly bracing himself for slamming into something. Whenever he looks at Dean, though, the man is just trotting along, seemingly without a care in the world.

“How do you do that?” Cas blurts suddenly, and Dean startles a little.

“Do what?”

Cas opens his mouth to explain, but then realizes that he’s essentially asking Dean how he walks around while blind. “Uh, nothing.”

“What?”

Cas sighs. “I just...I don’t understand how you can do this. How it’s so easy for you to just _run_ like this, without being able to see anything. I would be a nervous wreck, and you don’t seem phased at all.”

Dean shrugs. “I’ve got a year of this under my belt,” he reminds Cas. He pauses, then adds, “And I trust you.” He says it simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and Cas falters at his tone, his stomach doing a happy little flip at this revelation.

“Really?”

Dean chuckles. “Well, I mean, you running me into mailboxes and recycling bins didn’t exactly work in your favor, but now, yeah. I do.” Another pause, then, “I like running with you, Cas.”

The warmth in Cas’ chest at Dean’s words is quickly rushing up through the rest of his body, sending tiny jolts of electricity through him, and Cas closes his eyes for a second, a content little smile playing on his lips. “Thank you, Dean,” he finally says. “I like running with you, too.” He glances up quickly, scanning the area in front of them, then adds, “Left turn in four, three, two…”

They complete the turn successfully, and Dean laughs. “Two-for-two!”

Cas smiles before wiping away the sweat accumulating on his forehead with his free hand, then asks, "How do you feel about trying some hills?"

"I laugh in the face of hills." Dean runs a hand through his hair, then adds, "Let's go."

 

 

About an hour and a half or so later, they’ve powered down to a slow jog; once Cas catches sight of the Winchesters’ front porch, he has them slow to a walk for a cooldown.

“We almost back?” Dean asks, and Cas isn’t sure if he’s imagining the pang of disappointment in Dean’s voice, or if he’s just projecting his own emotions onto him.

"A few more yards, yes." He looks at Dean, who nods. "You did really well today, Dean. The hill was a little rough--"

Dean laughs bitterly. "You can say that again," he mutters, and Cas knows he's thinking of the fact that they had had to slow to a walk on the way up the hill, and he's quick to try and make Dean feel better.

"But it wasn't bad at all for our first one. How about tomorrow we go for twelve miles, but do a hill a little earlier in the run?"

Dean shakes his head. "Heartbreak's gonna be more than twenty miles in," he says, referring to the infamous Heartbreak Hill that is the bane of most Boston Marathoners' existence. The Hill wouldn’t be much if it was the starting point of a run, but to someone who’s already run twenty miles, it’s the equivalent of scaling Mount Everest. "I wanna work on hills while I'm dead on my feet, so we can at least stand a chance when we get to the real thing."

Cas chews on his lower lip thoughtfully, then nods. "Makes sense," he says. "So twelve miles, and we'll work it so we get to a hill ten miles in?"

Dean grins, and for some reason, Cas assumes that he's winking behind his dark sunglasses. "Now you're talkin' my language, Cas."

As they approach the house and stop in front of the fence, Cas notices that the garage door is open; there's a sleek, old-fashioned-looking car sitting inside.

“Is that yours?” Cas asks.

“Gonna have to be a little more specific there, Cas,” Dean says, clasping his hands together behind his back and lifting them up in a stretch as far as he can.

Cas’ cheeks redden, but he tries to recover quickly. He still isn’t used to Dean not seeing his nods or smiles or vague descriptions of things, and he feels like a dick whenever he makes the mistake, but Dean brushes it off easily. “Uh, the car in the garage. It’s a black--”

“Baby!” Dean exclaims. “Damn right, she’s mine. Wanna meet her?”

Cas has never considered meeting a car, but Dean’s excitement is palpable, so he agrees. He hands Dean his cane, and they make their way to the garage.

The car's doors creak as he and Dean pull them open, and Cas watches as Dean slides into the driver’s seat easily. The car isn’t anything special to Cas--as long as a car can get him from Point A to Point B, then that’s good enough for him--but he can tell the cracked leather, ancient tape player, and squeaky doors mean a lot to Dean. He almost feels like they’re sitting in a place of worship from how reverently Dean is treating everything inside the car, how his face had immediately brightened with pride when Cas asked if it was his. Dean reaches out and rubs his hand lovingly over the ridged steering wheel before grinning to himself.

“'67 Chevy Impala," Dean says affectionately.  "Used to drive her everywhere. Sammy’d get pissed because I’d drive her early in the morning, and her engine'd wake him up.” He chuckles at the memory, and Cas smiles into his lap.

“You must miss it.”

“Mhmm.”

They sit in silence for a moment, and Cas lets himself relax. He drops his hands away from his lap, letting his right hand slide along the door frame while the left rests on the seat between him and Dean. Suddenly, Cas realizes that he doesn’t know for sure how Dean lost his vision in the first place. All he has is Anna’s note about RP, whatever that is.

“What happened?”

Dean furrows his brow, turning his head toward him. “What happened with what?”

“How did you…” Cas gestures toward his own face, then remembers that Dean can’t see him, and mentally curses himself _again_. “...was it an accident?”

Dean stiffens. “Oh. Uh, no.” He keeps running his hand along the steering wheel, letting his fingers trail over the ridges absently. “I have this thing called RP. Retinitis pigmentosa. And basically, I just lost my sight.”

“Just out of nowhere?”

Dean shrugs. “Not really, I guess. It’s hereditary. Started out slow. I had issues walking and driving at night, got in a couple accidents that Sammy was convinced happened because I was drunk.” He lets out a short laugh at that. “I wasn’t, by the way. He just figured I was being an asshole and lying to him, but then I started not being able to deal with glare from the sun, and you know those stupid Transitions glasses? The kind where the lenses change from sunglasses to regular glasses when you go inside?”

“Yeah.”

“Those were like my eyes. I’d go into a room from being outside, and it took me a long time to get, like, _inside_ vision back. I started running into shit--blind spots--and I was still having issues seeing at night on top of all this, and it got to the point where Sam was freaked out enough to bring me to the optometrist. He ran a few tests, told us about RP, and it was just a waiting game after that.” He shrugs again. “Things got worse and worse, then I finally woke up one morning--” he snaps his fingers “--with nothing. Just some shadows.”

Cas’ breath catches in his throat. “Jesus.”

“Great, huh?” Dean’s lips curl up in a crooked smile.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“‘s not your fault,” he says, shifting his weight a little in the driver’s seat. “Fuckin’ sucks, but it’s not your fault.” There’s a short silence, and then Dean continues. “And it's not as bad as it could be. At least I know what shit looks like, you know? I've seen most of the stuff around me before, which is more than I can say for a lot of people I met during O and M."

"O and…M?" Cas repeats tentatively.

"Orientation and Mobility. O and M. It's where I learned the basics of how to get around, pretty much. Helped me not to look like a total shit show all the time." Dean shrugs, then grins. "I know it's hard to believe, but I wasn't always this coordinated, Cas. Helped Sam out, too, showed him how to…" His voice trails off as he tries to think of the right word, "…Dean-proof the house, make sure I wouldn't accidentally kill myself by cracking my head open after tripping over something that got left out, or a door that's open or something."

Suddenly the Winchesters' home—the cleanliness and order that seemed so out of place before—makes complete sense to him. “I was wondering why your house was so clean,” Cas says, and Dean gasps.

“What, there had to be a reason for it? We don’t look like guys who can keep a house clean?” he asks, mock-offended.

“Not particularly, no.”

Dean splays a hand out on his chest in classic _well I never_ fashion. “Gee, thanks, Cas,” he says with a grin.” He brings his right hand down to rest on the seat between them, and Cas freezes when he feels the weight of Dean’s hand on top of his. Dean’s hand jerks a little, as if he’s getting ready to pull it back, but after a second, his hand is still there.

“Your hand’s cold,” Dean says softly.

Cas swallows around the lump in his throat. “Uh, yeah. They usually a…” He trails off when he feels Dean’s fingers envelop his own, hesitantly at first, but then quicker once he realizes that Cas isn’t going to pull away. “...are,” Cas finishes lamely. He studies Dean’s hand for a few more seconds, the tanned skin and dirt under the fingernails, and before he can react, Dean is bringing Cas’ hand up to his mouth, and softly, uncertainly presses his lips against the back of it.

Dean likes him. He likes him enough to want to kiss his hand, at least, and even just that makes Cas want to bounce up and down in excitement.

His eyes study Dean’s, hidden away behind his sunglasses, and after a second of hesitation, Cas leans forward and removes the glasses, setting them down on the Impala’s dashboard. At first, he’s nervous that his actions would’ve upset Dean, but he smiles in relief when he feels Dean’s teeth press against the back of his hand as he grins, too. He watches the way the skin around Dean’s eyes crinkles as he smiles, and it just makes Cas smile wider.

“Can I…” Cas trails off, deciding to answer his question himself. He gently pulls his hand away from Dean’s lips, working it out of Dean’s grip until he’s got Dean’s hand in his own. He slowly brings it forward until Dean’s open palm is resting against his own cheek, then drops his hand to his lap, waiting to see what Dean would do next.

Dean keeps his hand still for a few seconds, then slowly starts to stroke his thumb along Cas’ cheekbone. He slides his hand down until his thumb runs over Cas’ chapped lips; he has just enough time to wet them before he feels Dean surge forward and press his lips against his own.

Dean’s tongue slips its way into his mouth, and Cas inches himself closer as Dean cups both his cheeks in his hands. He can feel Dean moving one of his hands up until it reaches Cas’ hair; once it’s there, he grabs a fistful of it and kisses Cas harder.

Dean’s mouth is hot and wet and welcoming and Cas feels _good_. His tongue bumps against Dean’s, and Cas edges himself toward Dean even more, closing the gap between them until he’s practically on Dean’s lap. Their position is awkward and uncomfortable and Cas is pretty sure he’s almost lost feeling in one of his legs, but he’d stay like this all day if it meant he got to keep kissing Dean.

He keeps his eyes closed most of the time, peeking at Dean every so often--just out of curiosity, sue him--and seeing that his eyes are closed, too. He can feel Dean’s lips form a smile against his own, and he smiles back, catching Dean’s bottom lip in his teeth. It’s not long after that that Dean pulls back--though not before planting a few sloppy kisses on Cas’ neck--his lips shiny and full, and Cas’ stomach flips a little at the thought that he did something wrong to cause Dean to stop.

“Are you okay?” he asks worriedly, resting his hand on Dean’s knee. “I’m sorry if--”

Dean barks out a laugh. “You have _nothing_ to be sorry for, Cas, trust me,” he says, running a hand through his hair. Cas makes a mental note to do the same thing next time; he wants to know what Dean’s hair feels like. “Sammy’ll be home in a few minutes, and I don’t want him walkin’ in on us.” He glances around the open garage, then adds, “Or out, whatever.”

As if to prove this, he leans forward and presses a kiss just to the left of Cas’ nose, and Cas smirks, assuming that Dean meant for it to land right on the tip of his nose instead. Dean’s muttered “Goddamn it” confirms this, and Cas’ smile grows wider.

“Where’d you put my glasses?” Dean asks, palming the area around them for a few seconds.

“Oh, uh, hold on.” Cas grabs Dean’s glasses off the dashboard and glances down at Dean’s hand, which is held out expectantly. He looks from Dean’s hand, to his face, then back to his hand again before reaching out and getting ready to place the glasses over Dean’s eyes. As he leans closer, he studies the freckles scattered across Dean’s nose and cheeks, and is suddenly hit with an urge to kiss every single one.

“Cas,” Dean says, “you better not have lost my goddamn glasses.”

Cas laughs and sets them on the bridge of Dean’s nose, tucking them in securely behind his ears. He adjusts them so that they’re straight, then leans in for a quick kiss on Dean’s cheek--and at least four of his freckles--before sitting back.

The skin under Dean’s freckles is flushed now, and Cas smiles. “Thanks, Cas,” Dean says quietly, the beginnings of a smile playing on his lips.

Cas wants nothing more than to stay in the Impala with Dean all night, but he figures--hopes--there’ll be plenty more times for that. “Should we head inside before Sam gets home?”

Dean nods. “I have a question first, though.” Cas stays silent, waiting for him to continue. “You know how I said you’re good at describing things?”

“Yes,” Cas says, thinking back to what’s now become one of his all-time favorite compliments.

“I want you to describe something else to me.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“You.”

Cas’ blood goes cold at that, and he stiffens. He has a hard enough time describing himself to people during a job interview; there’s no way he’s going to be able to describe himself well enough to make Dean find him attractive. “I...me?”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, you.”

“Dean, I don’t know if--”

“C’mon, Cas. You made the sky look like a goddamn Michelangelo. I wanna know what you look like.”

He says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world to describe. Cas’ cheeks are on fire, and he tries hard to swallow around the lump of anxiety that’s formed in his throat.

They stay silent for a few seconds before Dean offers up a solution. “Okay, compromise. How about one thing? Just describe one thing about you.”

“Like what?”

Dean pauses, then says, “Your eyes.”

“My...they’re blue.”

Dean gives him an unamused look. “You told me the sky was the shade of shit people buy for a baby shower when they find out the kid’s gonna be a boy,” he says, “and all I get about your eyes is that they’re blue?”

Cas works hard to tamp down the _he remembered our conversation he remembered my words he’s thought about me a lot since then_ feelings that are threatening to take over, and purses his lips thoughtfully. “It’s difficult to describe your own eyes well, Dean.”

Dean flashes him that crooked smile again, and Cas’ heart jumps. “I have faith in you.” He leans back in his seat and waits expectantly.

Cas takes a deep breath. “Sometimes people say they’re icy,” he starts slowly, “but I don’t think that. To me, icy is negative, or, well, cold. My eyes are a very bright blue, like the bottom of a clean pool on a sunny day.” Cas hesitates, casts a quick look Dean’s way, then shares his favorite description. “My mother used to say that they looked like pieces of blue seaglass with the sun glinting off of them.”

Dean is silent for a few seconds, and Cas is about to try and defend his description choices when Dean’s lips curl up into soft, fond smile. “That’s perfect,” he says quietly.

Cas’ heart lurches, and suddenly, he’s really looking forward to their twelve miles tomorrow.

The next day, Sam looks surprised when he opens the door and finds Cas standing on the porch.

"Hello, Sam," Cas says, smiling warmly. It takes some effort, but he restrains himself from adding _I kissed your brother in his car yesterday._

Sam's flustered, that much is obvious, but he still gives Cas a tired grin in return. "Hey, man." He's trying his best to sound warm and inviting, like he usually does, but his attempts fall flat this time.

"Sam?" Cas asks hesitantly. "Is everything o--"

"I thought I called you," Sam mumbles, running a hand through his hair. "Could've sworn I did."

"Is everything okay?"

"No!" Sam says quickly, then shakes his head. "I mean, yeah, no, it's fine. It's just, Dean can't run today."

Cas furrows his brows, and tries to ignore the stab of disappointment that's currently making itself at home in his chest. "Oh. Is he sick?" Sam pauses before opening his mouth to respond, but Cas picks up on his hesitation almost immediately. His heart starts hammering in his chest and he feels his stomach drop down deep, his mind immediately going into overdrive— _the kiss._ That's it, that must be what this is about. Trying to tamp down his panic, Cas begins running through everything from the day before. Dean had seemed to like the kiss, hell, he was the one who _started_ the goddamn thing, but what if he's just really good at lying, at giving people what he thinks they want? What if Cas pushed things too far, too fast, and now Dean doesn't want anything to do with him anymore? Taking a deep breath, Cas finally manages to stammer out a quick, "He's not sick."

Sam rubs his hand against the back of his neck, leaning with one hand against the door frame in an attempt to look casual. "Why don't you just come in."

When Cas takes his first hesitant steps into the house, a place he's become quite familiar with over the past couple of months, he can tell that something's different. Things seem…darker, somehow, like something's missing. Rudy trots excitedly over to Cas and looks like he's about to launch up onto his hind legs, but stays down after noticing a particularly incriminating glare from Sam.

"Hi, buddy," Cas says, giving the dog a small smile as he bends down to scratch behind his ears. While he's scratching, Cas glances up at Sam. "Where's Jack?"

"Upstairs with Dean." Sam waves his hand distractedly toward the staircase as he leads Cas into the living room. Cas tilts his head slightly, trying to decide if what he's about to ask could be considered rude or out of line. "Are you…going to tell me what's going on, Sam?"

Sam lets out a soft, humorless chuckle before taking a seat on the overstuffed recliner in the living room. "I probably should, huh?"

Cas hesitates, unsure if the question is rhetorical or not, but then adds a soft, "I'd appreciate it."

Sam grins and shakes his head as Cas sits down on the edge of the couch, right where Dean was sprawled out when they first met. "He's gonna be so pissed I told you."

For a split second, Cas wonders if Sam _isn't_ going to tell him whatever's going on, if he'll think better of it and leave Cas in the dark. He's about to open his mouth and demand that Sam tell him when the younger Winchester looks up at him and says, "He's depressed."

His brow furrows, and he narrows his eyes at Sam. "He's depressed?" he repeats, and Sam nods. Cas studies him for a few more seconds before adding, "Jesus, Sam, I thought you were going to say he was on his deathbed."

Sam's cheeks redden a little, and when he laughs this time, it looks like some of the tension in his face is actually draining away. "Yeah," he says, running his fingers through his lion's mane hair. "He just doesn't like to talk about it; I think he's embarrassed. Pretty sure I'm the only one who knows."

Cas glances up at the ceiling, wondering what Dean is doing upstairs right now. "It's nothing to be ashamed of," he says. "At all."

Sam gives him a knowing nod. "Oh, dude, trust me, I know. Think I haven't tried telling him that? He won't listen, though. He's too--"

"Stubborn," Cas interrupts, and Sam smirks.

"Exactly." He shakes his head affectionately, then looks at Cas again. "I'm sorry, man, I should've told you earlier."

Cas shakes his head to wave off the apology. "I just hope he's okay."

"He'll come out when he's ready," Sam says. "He's actually been handling it all really well since everything happened, everyone thinks so, but sometimes it just…hits him all over again, you know?"

Cas nods. It makes complete sense—Dean had gone through a traumatic event, so him dealing with depression is practically a given, but it's still hard for Cas to accept the fact that the normally rambunctious, high-energy, ridiculously snarky Dean Winchester is missing, replaced with a quiet shell of himself. For the first time since they'd started running together, Cas feels a little spot of emptiness in his chest, a spot Dean had carved out and inadvertently made himself at home in, and now that Dean’s regular self isn’t there, that spot feels cold and hollow and unwelcoming. He shifts uncomfortably on the couch in the living room, wringing his hands together in his lap. "I can't imagine what it must be like for him," he says softly.

Sam laughs humorlessly and scrubs a hand down his face. "Yeah, me neither. I mean, he's always fine after a couple of days, but it still freaks me out, I guess. I don't know. It's weird not having him bouncing all over the place, no matter how obnoxious he is." He grins to himself, and Cas smiles, too, picturing the energy and spark that Dean seems to bring wherever he goes; now that it's been pointed out, the hollow spot in Cas' chest feels even emptier.

"The first couple of months after everything happened just…" Sam tries for a few seconds to find the right words, but ends up shaking his head and focusing on his hands. "It fucked him up."

Cas opens his mouth to respond, but then takes a moment to study Sam's face, the worry etched into his forehead and the pain in his eyes. It's hard for Cas to believe, but Sam Winchester, all six feet four inches of him, looks small and scared, and Cas realizes that Dean's diagnosis fucked Sam up, too.

"You're very strong, Sam," Cas says suddenly, and Sam looks up. His shaggy hair is obscuring his eyes a little, but Cas can still tell that he looks surprised. "I don't know many people who would be able to adapt to something like this, to have their whole lives upended and still give everything to take care of their family. Dean is lucky to have a brother like you to be there for him."

Sam studies Cas for a few seconds, then quickly gets to his feet and bends down to envelop Cas in a hug. Cas laughs a little, caught off guard, and slowly gets to his feet so that Sam can straighten up, too, and Sam hugs him tighter. "Thanks, Cas," he says softly.

"Of course." Cas gives the younger Winchester a pat on the back before breaking the hug. "I, uh, tell Dean I'm thinking of him, and hope he feels better. Please."

Sam smiles at him, and Cas isn't sure, but it almost looks knowing. "'Course, Cas. And when he _is_ feeling better, you'll be the first one I tell."

 

Cas is on the train on the way home Wednesday night when he gets a text from Sam. It's the day before he and Dean's next scheduled run, and three days after his visit to the Winchesters' house, and Cas would be lying if he said his stomach didn't twist up into knots at the sight of Sam's name on his phone screen.

_Tomorrow's on, Dean is excited to see you :)_

Cas' stomach twists again, but for entirely different reasons this time. Before he can try to stop it, he feels his mouth curve up into a smile, and he lets his head loll back over the edge of his seat back as relief floods through him. Dean is feeling better. Dean wants to see him.

When Cas brings his head back upright, a stupid smile still plastered across his face, he catches the eye of a girl across from him, a few seats away. She's staring at him, and even though she gives him a small smile, it's tight and uneasy, and Cas can tell she's freaked out by him, this random guy smiling to himself on the train. Weirder stuff has happened on the T--Cas has seen it firsthand--but apparently not to this girl.

Cas returns the smile quickly before averting his eyes. He can feel his cheeks burning in embarrassment, but when he looks down at Sam's message again, the smile comes creeping back.

He's seeing Dean again tomorrow.

When Cas arrives early the next morning, he’s surprised to see Dean sitting out on the porch steps. He’s got his phone next to him, its speakers broadcasting something that sounds like a story, and Cas realizes that he’s listening to an audiobook. He’s tapping his sneakered feet against the ground every so often, and he’s got a leash loosely wrapped in his hand; Jack is lounging on the grass. He peeks up at Cas and yawns.

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas says. Dean starts a little and reaches for his phone, then taps the home button three times. A small ding goes off, and then Cas watches as Dean taps at the screen.

 _Rewind,_ the phone says. Dean shifts his finger slightly to the right on the screen, then taps again. _Pause_. Dean taps the screen twice, and the book he was listening to pauses. “Hey,” Dean says, flashing Cas another one of his patented crooked smiles.

“What are you listening to?” Cas asks. He sits down on the steps next to Dean, tapping his shoulder to alert him to which side of him he’s sitting on.

“ _The Shining_ ,” Dean answers, waggling his eyebrows behind his glasses. “In the mood for something creepy.” Cas has only been sitting for a few seconds when Dean gets to his feet, prompting Jack to lumber to his, as well.

“Is Jack joining us?”

Dean shrugs. “Not sure he’s up for the running part,” he says, leaning down to affectionately rub behind Jack’s ears, “but I was thinking we could take him for a little walk, as our warm-up.”

“Of course.” Jack wags his tail at Cas’ affirmation, and Cas leans down to scratch under his chin. “No Rudy?”

Dean scoffs. “Sam’ll take him out later. That dog has more energy than...most things, actually. Jack’s just my speed. Just let me know if I’m gonna hit shit, the usual,” he says as he starts down the walkway.

Cas quirks his head to the side as he hurries to catch up. “Jack isn’t your guide dog?” he asks, which elicits a burst of laughter from Dean.

“Hell, no,” he says. “Me and Sammy have had Jack and Rudy for years. Christ, Rudy’s practically Sam in dog form. They’re a match made in Heaven, and Jack’s too lazy to do much other than go for walks and beg for belly rubs.”

They walk along the street quietly, the only real conversation happening when Cas alerts Dean to curbs or that Jack is stopping to sniff something or take care of business.

“So,” Dean finally says once Jack’s curiosity with a neighbor’s rose bush had waned, “heard you stopped by the other day.”

“I did,” Cas says carefully. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah.” Dean rubs the back of his neck with his free hand and looks down. “Sorry about that,” he says, and that’s the _last_ thing Cas had expected to come out of Dean’s mouth.

“Dean, don’t apologize. That’s nothing to feel sorry for.” Cas looks down and adds, “Jack is stopping.”

Dean stops as well and shrugs, but doesn’t answer.

“Dean,” Cas says again, more insistently this time. “You shouldn’t feel bad about this. Depression is much more common than you think. People deal with it all the time.” Cas takes a breath, then adds, “Including me.”

After a pause, Dean just says, “Okay.”

Cas contemplates what to say next. “I know that everyone handles these things differently, but if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here, okay? And if you’re not up to something, I need you to be honest with me. Please. I want to know how you’re doing, Dean.”

When Dean doesn’t answer, Cas feels his stomach twist uncomfortably, his cheeks going hot as he wonders if he’d overstepped his boundaries, but then Dean holds his free hand out in between the two of them, palm facing up toward Cas. Cas looks down at it for a second, then places his own hand in Dean’s. Dean is quick to entwine their fingers together, and once they are, he gives Cas’ hand a squeeze. Cas smiles down at their hands before noticing that Jack is on the move again.

“Jack’s going.”

Dean’s hand never leaves Cas’ for the rest of the walk.

“So, Cassie,” Balthazar says later that day at work, “haven’t heard much from you about your little running buddy.”

Cas and Balthazar are taking tickets at the Omni Theatre today, and now that everyone has been ushered into the afternoon show about glaciers, the two of them are left in an empty lobby with a half hour to kill before the next show.

Cas doesn’t answer right away--he’s still a little pissed at Balthazar for inadvertently getting him written up during the fossil fight--and he tries to suppress the hint of a smile playing on his lips at the thought of Dean, but Balthazar notices and jumps on it immediately.

“ _Ooh_ , it _is_ going well, huh? Lovely.” Balthazar leans on his ticket-taking kiosk and gives him a cheeky grin. “When do I get to meet the man who’s stolen little Cassie’s heart?”

“When you stop flirting with guests and getting _me_ written up,” Cas says.

Balthazar throws up his hands in frustration. “Jesus, Castiel, I’ve apologized for that, haven’t I? More than once, if I recall correctly.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Maybe he’ll come in sometime. _Maybe_.”

“The inimitable Dan Westchester,” Balthazar says slyly, and Cas can tell he said it just to get a rise out of him. He’s successful in hiding his emotions this time, and Balthazar pouts a little, then prods further. “Has he...helped relieve you of stress yet?”

Cas wrinkles his nose. “No, Balthazar. And even if he did, I wouldn’t tell you in the middle of the museum.”

“Ah, but you _would_ tell me,” Balthazar says with a wink. “Anything else? Back massages? Kisses?”

Cas watches as Balthazar’s eyes go wide, and he realizes that his blush has given him away.

“Cas _tiel_!” Balthazar yelps delightedly. “Yes!” He pumps his fist just as a lost group of guests wanders into the theatre lobby. He beams at Cas. “Proud of you, sweetie,” he says with a wink before turning to help the guests.

Cas doesn’t want to admit it, but he can’t lie; he’s pretty proud of himself, too.

“Hey, Cas, you okay?”

No, he’s really not, but he doesn’t want to tell Dean that. They’ve only been running for a few minutes today during a rare late afternoon run, and Cas’ shins are on fire. They started out at a dull throb, but the pain had escalated quickly, and Cas thought that he had it under control, but apparently not.

Cas sucks in a tight breath through his teeth, then says, “I’m fine. Move a little closer to me, there’s a cur--” He’s jerked backward a little and turns around to see Dean standing still, arms folded across his chest, staring accusingly at Cas.

“Bullshit,” he says. “I know how you run when you’re feeling good, and this--” He lets out a harsh little laugh, “-- _this_ isn’t you feeling good, man.”

Cas sighs and laces his hands together behind his head in defeat. “I think they might be shin splints,” he finally says. “I had them once a year or so a--”

“ _What_?” Dean demands. “What the hell are we doing out here, then? Come on, Cas, we’re going back.”

“Dean, I--”

“ _Back_ , Cas. Now.”

Back at the house, they’re greeted by an extremely enthusiastic Rudy, the bell around his collar chiming as he bounces around at their feet, panting excitedly and begging for them to pet him. Dean obliges for a few seconds before nudging the dog aside, running his hand along the hallway wall until they get to the living room.

“Couch,” he says, pointing in the general direction of the well-worn, overstuffed couch in the middle of the room. Cas obliges, but still tries to protest.

“Dean, I’m…” He trails off when he realizes that Dean has moved on to the kitchen; he can hear him rummaging around in the fridge now. He returns a moment later holding a bag of frozen peas, and tosses it in Cas’ general direction. Instead of landing on the couch, it lands on the floor with a thud, and Dean stares at it as if it betrayed him.

“Pick that up and put it on your knees.”

“Dean, my--”

“Peas on knees, dude.” With that, Dean pulls out his phone, holds down the home button, then says, “How to treat shin splints.” A computerized voice starts listing different treatments for shin splints, including elevating the legs and icing the shins, and Dean turns his phone off before sliding it back into his pocket. “I’m gonna get you some more ice, then make us some food.”

Even though he knows it’s useless, Cas tries to protest once more. “I’m fine, De--”

Dean points at him. “You. Relax. Now.”

Cas sighs and watches as Dean leaves the living room, taking care not to trip over Jack, Rudy, or anything else as he goes. He reappears a few moments later with some more ice and makes his way over to the couch, running his hand along the back of it until he feels Cas, then hands it over.

Cas takes the freezing bag and glances over his shoulder as Dean heads back to the kitchen, then settles against the couch. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t feel better to be resting instead of running--he’s pretty sure he’d be in agony right now if they were still out there--but at the same time, he feels odd having someone take care of him like this. Odd, but also nice. Besides his family, he doesn’t remember the last time he’s had someone dote on him, but as he props his legs up on the coffee table with a small pile of pillows, rests the ice on his aching shins, and closes his eyes, he finds himself thinking that he’s glad the care is coming from Dean.

 

He must’ve dozed off, because the next time Cas opens his eyes, the TV is on, tuned to a what looks like a so-bad-it’s-good horror movie, and Dean is sitting next to him on the couch, munching contentedly on a grilled cheese sandwich. Dean must feel him shift next to him, because he points to a plate on the coffee table, which is stacked with two more grilled cheeses, and says, “Fuck the diet thing.”

Cas smiles before reaching for the plate. “Okay.” He can’t help but notice that Dean has taken off his sunglasses. He takes a bite of the sandwich, then adds, “Shin splints aren’t the end of the world, you know.”

“I know.” Dean shrugs before wiping away a few stray crumbs from his mouth. “You wanted to make sure I was okay the other day,” he says simply. “I want to make sure you’re okay, too.”

It’s such a simple, endearing explanation, so much so that Cas leans over and presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek with a soft smile. “Thank you, Dean.”

The crinkles around Dean’s eyes are back in full force at that. He sets his own empty plate on the coffee table--just barely missing Cas’ feet, but Cas decides not to comment--before closing up what little space was left between them and slinging an arm across Cas’ shoulders.

“What are we watching?” Cas mumbles through his sandwich, but almost immediately after the words leave his mouth, he stiffens. “I mean--”

“No idea,” Dean interrupts, squeezing Cas just a little bit closer to him. “Pretty sure a guy just, like, chainsawed through a shark, though.”

 

Two hours and one and a half cheesy horror movies later, the bags of ice on Cas’ shins have melted, and Dean is snoring softly, his head resting on Cas’ shoulder. Cas looks over and studies Dean’s face, how calm and relaxed it looks in sleep. He smiles at each one of Dean’s freckles, and resists the urge to card his fingers through Dean’s short hair, not wanting to risk waking him.

Instead, Cas shifts his legs slightly so that the bags flop down onto the coffee table, curls his legs underneath himself, and gently rests his head on top of Dean’s, Dean’s arm still wrapped around his shoulders. As Dean shifts in his sleep, snuggling up further against him, Cas decides that he could handle having shin splints again, especially if this would be the end result.


	5. Chapter 5

The next beautiful day coincides with one that Cas has off from work, so instead of sticking to their early morning routine of running around Dean’s neighborhood, Cas suggests that they run along the Charles River in the city instead. A small section of the gigantic, picturesque river runs right past the Museum, and its paved trails have long been one of Cas’ favorite places to run, so he’s excited to share it with Dean.

The two of them jog in sync, moving with an easy familiarity that Cas has now come to expect whenever he’s around Dean. Being with Dean has started giving him the same calming sense of reassurance that running had given him in the first place, so having both together creates a happy little burst of excitement deep in his chest whenever he thinks about it.

“Squirrel,” Cas says, and Dean startles a little.

“What?”

“You were about to run into a squirrel.”

“He wasn’t gonna _move_?” Dean asks in disbelief.

“Squirrels can be very headstrong animals, Dean. Like pigeons.”

“Jesus.”

They bank fifteen miles, and then decide to take a break before heading back. Cas finds them a spot on the grass on the banks of the Charles, and leads Dean over to it. They sit down and spend a few minutes just listening to the goings-on around them, the Harvard crew coaches yelling directions, little kids running past them, and cars honking behind. Even though they’re right on the fringes of the city, Cas feels peaceful there, letting the little bits of nature permeate the regular city living he’s become so accustomed to.

“This is cool,” Dean says softly. “Nice. I mean, it feels nice, y’know? We should run here more often. Or, y’know, just come here to hang out.” He cheeks go pink at the suggestion, and Cas leans over and kisses Dean’s cheek softly with a small laugh.

“I’d like that.” He pauses, then asks, “Dean?” He reaches over and entwines Dean’s fingers with his own, letting their hands rest clasped together on the grass.

“Mhmm.”

“What’s, what do you miss seeing the most?”

Dean stiffens a little at the question; Cas can feel Dean’s fingers grip his tighter. He lets out a rough, humorless laugh and leans back so that he’s lying down on the grass, staring up at the sky. “Seeing you would be nice. The real you, because I’m sure Sammy’s descriptions don’t do you justice.”

Cas raises his eyebrows. “You’ve asked Sam what I look like?”

“‘Course,” Dean says, sounding surprised that Cas is surprised by this. “I mean, _you_ wouldn’t tell me, so I had to get my info from somewhere.” He pauses, then softly adds, “And from what he’s said, I really fucking lucked out.” He grins and brings Cas’ hand to his lips for a quick kiss before setting it back down, keeping their fingers entwined.

Cas’ cheeks are on fire, and he lays down, too, and smiles up at the sky. “I think I did, too,” he says softly. He turns toward Dean and studies him, his perfect jaw and patches of freckles and laughter lines, for a few seconds before saying, “What else do you miss?”

Dean purses his lips in thought before saying, “I’m pissed I missed being able to see your face the first time you saw my ridiculously good-looking self. Does that count?”

Cas barks out a laugh. “Something from before you met me.”

Dean sighs and runs his free hand through his hair. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not.”

There’s a minute where Cas doesn’t hear anything except the smacking of sneaker soles as people run by them, mixed with the faint yells of crew coaches on the water, and then Dean finally says, “Comics.”

Cas was expecting something more dramatic, like sunsets on the beach down at the Cape, the way the sun glints off the Prudential on a summer day, snow lining the branches of trees in the Common, that kind of thing. Not comics.

“I know it’s stupid,” Dean says before Cas can respond. “But...I dunno. Having to go to my shop and tell ‘em to cancel my pull list, not because I’m moving away or can’t afford it anymore, but because I went fucking blind.” Another humorless laugh, and Cas’ heart starts to pull down deeper into his chest.

Cas opens his mouth and is about to ask if he or Sam could read the issues to him, but then realizes that wouldn’t do Dean any good; half the fun of comics is the artwork, and if that’s taken away, there doesn’t seem to be much point.

“I...never really thought about that,” Cas says slowly, unsure of how else to handle this revelation.

“It’s not exactly the first thing you think of.  had my fair share of wanting to see oceans and lightning storms and rainbows and shit again, but at least I _knew_ what those looked like, y’know?”

“Yeah.” Cas is silent for a few more seconds, staring up at the clouds and feeling suddenly guilty for being able to see them before adding, “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean continues without missing a beat, as if he hadn’t even heard Cas. “I’m never gonna know how _Sex Criminals_ ends.”

“ _Sex_...what?”

Dean laughs, resting his free hand on his chest. “It’s a comic,” he says, “about people who can stop time when they have sex. And once time _is_ stopped, they rob banks.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah, that’s it. It’s the best,” he says indignantly, sitting up and turning toward Cas, his brow furrowed. At Cas’ silence, he asks, “Are you telling me you think a comic with that premise isn’t the fucking best?”

Cas smirks. “Maybe I just have a different definition of what ‘the fucking best’ is.”

Dean gapes at him before scooting around so that his back is toward Cas. “Wow. Thanks, Cas. I see how it is. Blind guy pours his soul out to you, and you tell him his favorite comic series--the one that he can’t goddamn _see_ anymore--sucks ass.” The phrase would’ve caused a flurry of panic to well up low in Cas’ chest and make him dissolve into apologies, but he can hear the traces of a smile in Dean’s words, and decides to play along instead.

“Oh, come on,” Cas says, leaning over and pawing at Dean’s T-shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Dean jerks away from Cas’ grip, but he’s pliant when Cas grips him by the shoulders and forcibly turns him back around to face him again. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, tracing his thumb along Dean’s jaw. “I’m sorry for insulting your stupid sex comic.”

Dean’s face morphs into a surprised expression, and he tries to pull away again, but Cas maneuvers him so that he’s lying back down on the grass, and presses a kiss to his lips. “Fuck you,” Dean mumbles against Cas’ lips, but Cas can feel him smiling, too, and he smiles back.

“That’s rude,” Cas breathes, reaching down to grab Dean’s hand. Dean cranes his neck to try and make contact with Cas’ lips again, and Cas moves himself up an inch or two at a time so that Dean has to sit up to actually reach him for another kiss.

“ _You’re_ rude,” Dean says, squeezing Cas’ hand. He presses his free hand against Cas’ cheek, and Cas can feel his skin glow with warmth under Dean’s palm. Dean’s thumb brushes against his lips before he leans in for another kiss.

“Is this how you treat all rude people?” Cas asks, threading the fingers of one hand through Dean’s close-cut hair.

Dean shakes his head. “Special case.”

They stay like this for a few minutes, planting playful little kisses on each other every so often, and Cas wishes he could do this every day, that they could work it into their training regimen somehow. Wake up, shower, eat breakfast, run, kiss for a while, stretch, have dinner, make out some more--

The fantasy of his perfect schedule is interrupted suddenly by a high-pitched voice.

“Hey! Hey, you guys!”

Cas smiles against Dean’s lips and is about to pull away; Dean’s teeth catch on his lip in an effort to keep him still. As much as Cas wants to stay that way, he stops, turning around to look behind them, where the voice is coming from. A little boy, no more than four or five, is looking expectantly at them, his red baseball cap doing a terrible job of trying to corral his unruly, frizzy blonde hair.

“Hello,” Cas says, waving at him. He can see a man and a woman--the boy’s parents, probably--hurrying toward them, and waves at them, too.

“Mommy’s looking for someone to take a picture of us,” the boy says, pointing back toward his parents, who have just arrived.

“Aiden!” his mom says, her breathing heavy. “What have I told you about interrupting people?" She turns to Dean and Cas, smiling apologetically. “I’m so sorry,” she says, “Aiden here is still learning his manners.”

“He is, too,” Cas says, nodding toward Dean, who shakes his head.

“Little man said you guys wanted a picture?” Dean asks.

“Oh, well, we don’t want to inter--” the husband begins, but Dean cuts him off.

“Well, Cas, what’re you waiting for? Take their picture, huh?” Dean grins as Cas nudges him playfully with his elbow before getting to his feet. As the husband starts to show him how to use his camera, Cas notices the woman’s eyes wander, then widen as she notices something just out of his own line of vision.

“Aiden, _no_! Put that down!” She lunges forward and Cas turns around to see the little boy playing with Dean’s cane. Dean’s leaning back, pushing all his weight onto his palms, seemingly without a care in the world.

“Is this yours?” he asks Dean.

Dean looks up, his brow furrowed behind his sunglasses. “Is what mine?”

“This.” Aiden holds the cane in front of Dean’s face. Cas glances at Aiden’s mom, whose eyes are wide, her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“Aiden, don--”

“Cane,” Cas whispers, and Dean straightens a little.

“Oh, that?” he asks casually. “Sure is.”

“It’s cool. I want one, where’d you get it?”

Dean barks out a laugh and shifts so that he’s facing in the direction of Aiden’s voice. “It’s special, one of a kind,” he says, his voice taking on a conspiratorial whisper. He pauses, then adds, “It’s like a lightsaber. You ever seen _Star Wars_?”

“Dad won’t let me,” Aiden says grumpily. He folds his arms across his chest and pouts, and Cas grins.

“Next year, Aiden,” the man says, running his hand through his hair in frustration; Cas senses that this isn’t the first time he and his son have had this conversation.

Dean glances up toward Aiden’s dad’s voice, then back to Aiden. “Listen to your dad,” he says, “and when you finally _do_ see it, you’ll be able to get your very own one of these. Except I bet yours will be way cooler than mine. Yours’ll have a color and everything, and you’ll be the only one who’ll be able to use it.”

Cas feels a pang in his chest when Aiden’s eyes go bright with excitement; he wishes Dean could see them.

“So only you can use this one?”

“Yup. Just me.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Aiden drops the cane back onto the grass, and Dean grins.

“Don’t worry about it. But just think, this time next year, you’ll have one of your own. How cool’s that gonna be, huh?”

“Really cool,” Aiden says. “Do they have green ones?”

“‘Course they do.”

Aiden turns to his dad. “I want a green one!”

“Uh-huh,” Aiden’s dad says. “Duly noted, champ. Now, I think we’ve bothered these two enough, so…”

Cas glances down at the camera in his hands, feeling like he had temporarily forgotten it was there, and holds it up. Aiden’s mom herds him in front of them, muttering promises of ice cream if he stays still for this one picture, and Cas smiles to himself. He studies the family through the viewfinder, making sure their faces are all in focus and that there are no rogue joggers or dog-walkers making cameo appearances in the background. As he snaps the first picture, he finds himself wondering if this will be him and Dean someday. He knows they’ve only known each other for a few months, and been dating for even less, but his mind can’t help but imagine the two of them together, taking turns holding a tiny baby in their arms, a baby who will eventually love running and _Star Wars_ and (eventually) stupid sex comics, just like their dads.

He’s taken at least eight pictures before he realizes that he’s spacing out, and quickly takes the camera away from his eye. “I took a few,” he explains sheepishly, handing the camera back to Aiden’s dad.

“Thanks.” He smiles at Cas, then adds, “Want one of you two?”

Cas glances over at Dean, who’s already been rejoined by Aiden. Dean has folded his cane in half and is waving it around and jabbing at air, apparently teaching the boy some very impressive moves he can do with his future lightsaber, and Cas grins. “We’d love that,” he says. He digs into his pocket and hands the man his phone, then walks over to Dean and taps him on the shoulder.

“Hmm?”

“Want to get our picture taken?”

Dean pauses in mid-jab before reaching out for Cas’ hand. Cas offers it to him; Dean’s fingers clasp around his wrist, and Cas yelps in surprise as Dean pulls him down next to him. He can see the way Dean smirks as he wraps his arm around Cas’ shoulders, and Cas rolls his eyes.

“A little warning would’ve been nice.”

“‘m pulling you down next to me,” Dean mumbles, leaning over and planting a kiss underneath Cas’ earlobe. He’s pretty sure it was meant to land on his cheek, but he grins and squeezes Dean’s hand in thanks.

“Okay,” Aiden’s dad says, holding the phone in front of his face, “on three. One...two…”

Cas leans into the warmth of Dean’s body, comforted by Dean’s hand squeezing his shoulder. They stay that way, frozen for a few seconds, until Aiden’s dad glances down at the phone before walking over to hand it back to Cas.

“Took a few, too.” He smiles. “Thanks again, guys. Have a good one.”

“You, too, man,” Dean says with a nod.

Cas thumbs through his phone to the new pictures as Aiden and his family leave, and he feels the pressure of Dean resting his chin on his shoulder. “How’s it look?” he asks.

“It’s good.”

“And?”

“What?”

“You’re just gonna leave me with ‘it’s good’? Really?” He nudges Cas with his shoulder and grins. “Get to the good stuff.”

Cas shakes his head, but looks at the picture again, trying to put together his thoughts. “We’re sitting close together,” he starts. “The sun’s hitting your sunglasses, but there’s no glare or anything. The grass actually looks really nice. Bright and full, and not prickly like it really is. The…” Cas laughs softly.

“What?”

“You can see the Charles a little bit behind us, and if you had never seen it before, you wouldn’t know it’s a place where mob bosses toss dead bodies. Or that it’s just generally pretty gross in there. That’s how nice it looks in this picture.”

Dean pauses, his lips quirked halfway between a confused expression and a smirk, and he finally starts laughing. “Why aren’t you writing brochures for the city, Cas?” He holds up both hands, fingers splayed. “Come to Boston, where our rivers _look_ nice in pictures, but secretly hold corpses and shit. Bring the whole family!”

Cas smacks his open palm against Dean’s leg, trying to keep the smile out of his voice. “Shut up, that’s how it looks.”

“Okay, Shakespeare. What else?”

“You’ve got this grin on your face,” Cas continues, zooming in on Dean’s face in the picture, even though he’s got the real thing right next to him. “You’re leaning against me, our heads are tilted together, almost touching. I don’t know. You look relaxed.”

There’s a pause as Dean considers this. “What about you?” Dean’s voice is soft, almost shy, and it’s such a shift from his normally outgoing demeanor that it throws Cas off guard.

“I’m...happy,” Cas finally says. “I look happy. I usually hate pictures of myself, but I really like this one. A lot. So, yes…” Cas’ voice trails off as he leans forward and gives Dean a quick peck on the lips. “It’s nice.”

 

They’re not interrupted by any more families wanting a photo, which is just fine with Cas, and apparently Dean, too. The next half hour is spent exactly the way Cas wants the next ten years to go, kissing Dean every so often until they settle on lying comfortably in the grass, Cas nuzzled up against the crook of Dean’s neck, Dean’s arm curled protectively around him as they stare up at the sky.

“Want to go to the finish line?” Dean asks suddenly.

“The finish line?”

“Yeah.” Dean starts to peel himself away from Cas--much to Cas’ disappointment--and gets to his feet, his cane ready to go in one hand, his free hand held out to help Cas up, too. “We’re here, might as well see it, right?”

“Okay.” Cas takes his time getting up, and apparently isn’t moving fast enough, because he suddenly feels something long and thin smack his ass. He jumps to attention and glares at Dean, who’s standing casually next to him, halfheartedly attempting to hide his cane behind his back while grinning widely at him.

“Let’s get movin’, cowboy.”

“Cowboy?” Cas repeats skeptically.

“Hey, it was the best I could come up with on short notice, okay?”

“Sure, Dean.”

 

“Did you ever see the Charles T stop?” Cas asks as they wait for the train to arrive.

Dean shakes his head. The platform is crowded with people anxious to make the next train, but they’re sure to leave a bubble of empty space around the two of them once they notice Dean’s cane. They’ve switched from Dean holding Cas’ elbow like a guide normally would, to holding hands, their fingers entwined together easily, and Cas gives Dean’s hand a small squeeze. He likes that particular change very much.

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s my favorite T stop,” Cas says, and Dean scoffs.

“You have a favorite _T stop_?”

“It’s really quite beautiful,” Cas says. “A lot nicer than the others.” Dean looks unconvinced, so Cas starts to describe it. “It’s up high,” he says, “as I’m sure you noticed, with the long escalator ride.” Dean grunts in affirmation, and Cas continues. “You ride right over the Charles itself, and it doesn’t matter what side you’re on; when you look out the window, you see the river and the skyline. And it’s very nice, especially on a sunny day like today. The crew teams are still out on the water practicing, and the water itself is...shimmery. Like a mirror.”

“Shimmery,” Dean repeats.

Cas nods. “Yes. And on clear nights, you can see the lights from the buildings twinkling in the water. When it’s not crowded, sometimes it doesn’t even feel like you’re on the T. It’s just a scenic ride for a minute or so.”

Dean pauses, taking these descriptions in. “Is it crowded now?”

“Very.”

Dean laughs and leans over, planting a kiss on Cas’ neck. “We’ll just have to come back when it’s not as crowded then, huh?”

Cas smiles, then drops a quick kiss at Dean’s hairline. “I’d like that.”

 

After a transfer and way too many delays than a four-stop ride should take, Dean and Cas arrive at Copley station and make their way up to the street, Cas’ fingers laced with Dean’s as he leads them toward the Marathon’s finish line.

Copley Square is bustling with activity, people taking advantage of the weather like they had been earlier, and Dean’s cane is moving quickly to clear the way for him as they walk. As they approach the finish line, Cas’ mind wanders back to what the area was like that day in 2013, when Boston effectively shut itself down in order to find those responsible for the bombings that terrified but also united the city.

He still remembers hearing the news when it first happened, how the image on his TV screen had filled up with chaos and smoke, how the announcers didn’t know what was going on, thought the smoke might’ve been caused by an accident or malfunction from the T. Once it had been determined that the smoke wasn’t from a malfunction, but from bombs, he had tried to call Anna, and subsequently started panicking because practically every phone line in the city was jammed, and he couldn’t get in touch with her until hours later.

He remembers being holed up in his apartment with Anna, sleeping for just an hour or two before focusing in on the news again as a shooting took place near MIT, followed by a manhunt in nearby Watertown. The sparks of panic, anger, and frustration that crackled in his gut when it seemed as though they weren’t going to be able to find the one remaining man responsible for rocking the city to its core.

But then, he thinks about the way the city started to heal once the man had been apprehended. The way they banded together, supported each other, and the way the light slowly returned back to Boston, and that’s what in his mind when he and Dean approach the finish line. It’s painted across the entirety of Boylston Street, so they can only see a small part of it without risking getting caught in traffic.

“Step down,” Cas says, “in three, two, one.” He and Dean step off the curb and onto the street smoothly, and Cas takes an extra minute to make sure they’re in the right position. “This is it,” he finally says softly, looking down at the blue-and-yellow finish line under their feet. “Right below you, Dean.”

Dean bounces on the balls of his feet for a few seconds, then hands Cas his cane, kneels down, and runs his hand over the asphalt. His hand goes back and forth between the painted asphalt and the regular Boston street as he swipes; Cas wonders if they feel any different.

“We’re gonna cross this thing, Cas,” Dean says, looking up toward him.

“We are.”

Dean pushes himself to his feet and holds out his hand, which Cas takes, but as soon as he does, Dean pulls his own out of Cas’ grip and starts running it up Cas’ arm, across his shoulders, up his neck, until it stops, pressed gently against his cheek. He’s sure that Dean can feel his face move under his palm as he smiles, because he smiles, too, before leaning in and pressing his own lips to Cas’.

“Let’s kick it in the ass,” he murmurs.

“Yes,” Cas says softly, catching his teeth gently on Dean’s bottom lip. “Let’s.”

The next day, Cas is sitting on a practically abandoned bus jerking along through Somerville, hoping that Dean didn’t notice his conversation with Sam after returning from their time in the city yesterday. He had made sure to make it quick, to speak in a low voice when he was sure Dean was out of earshot, but he’s still nervous that Dean overheard somehow.

_“Sam, can I ask you something?”_

_“Sure, dude, what’s up?”_

_“Can Dean read braille?”_

_Sam shrugs. “Kind of. He’s not fluent, but he can manage. Why?”_

_“Just wondering.” Cas pauses, then adds, “Oh, and one more thing. Did Dean go to a certain comic shop?”_

_Sam looks at him curiously. “Did he--”_

_“When he read comics. Before--”_

_“Yeah.” Sam shakes his head. “Yeah, no, I know. Just wasn’t expecting that after a braille question, ‘sall.” He huffs out a small laugh, runs his fingers through his tangled hair. “Uh, Hub. Over in Somerville, tiny little place, creaky floors, shelves full to bursting, that kind of deal. Dean spent way too much money there.” He grins, then looks up at Cas. “Why?”_

_Cas smiles back. “It’s a surprise.”_

His stop couldn’t have come soon enough; one of the bus’ other passengers is snoring, and Cas forgot his earbuds. As he thanks the driver and walks down the bus’ steps, Cas feels his lips curve up in a smile as he pictures Dean here, how perfectly the area suits him. Union Square is milling with people, walking their dogs, riding bikes, or just enjoying the day. The funky little area is packed full of shops, cafes, and the occasional yoga studio; Cas has already caught sight of a record store and three different donut shops. He glances down at his phone, squinting against the sunlight’s glare on his phone. “Bow Street,” he mutters, before looking up the crowded street and walking toward his destination.

Hub Comics is a tiny shop nestled in the middle of Union Square, and Cas approaches the front door a little hesitantly. He’d gotten the name and location of Dean’s former comic shop from Sam, but if he’s being honest with himself, he has no idea what he’s doing. He should just turn around and head back to the bus stop before he embarrasses himself. This was just a little spark of an idea, he hasn’t even tried to figure it out further, and there’s no guarantee these people could even help him.

He pushes open the door anyway.

Greeted immediately with a barrage of comments and arguments from the three people in the shop, Cas is tempted to turn right back around and pray that they hadn’t seen him. Taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, he pushes himself forward and heads toward one of the towering bookshelves marked “Fantasy,” trying his best to be discreet with his eavesdropping.

“Why don’t you read it?” a slim redhead demands, shifting her glasses up further on her nose before fixing the guy in front of her with a challenging stare. She’s leaning on her elbows on the other side of the counter, so Cas assumes she must be an employee.

The guy pushes up his own glasses before shrugging. “A girl with squirrel powers? Not exactly the strongest character to choose for a series reboot, you know.”

The girl throws her hands up in the air. “Not the strongest character? You read _Ant-Man_ , for god’s sake!”

“Hey, Scott Lang is compelling! Plus, he can lift up to 50 times his own body weight.”

The redhead smirks. “Doreen Green would kick his ass, Ed.” She turns to the other patron in the store, a scrawny guy with messy black hair. “What do you think, Harry?” she asks. “Lang or Green in a one-on-one fight? No squirrels or ants allowed.”

Harry shakes his head, keeping his nose in the comic he’s flipping through. Cas squints, and he can just barely make out the title. _Wytches_. “Nope. Staying out of this.” He glances up quickly and adds, “But if you could check and see when I’ll be able to end my Fraction-Zdarsky drought, that’d be good.”

The redhead’s face turns serious as she ducks behind the computer on the counter. “Ugh, I _know_ , right?” She starts typing quickly, the screen’s glow bouncing faintly off the lenses of her glasses. “They keep getting my hopes up, then breaking my heart week after week. When’s the last time a new issue came out, anyway?”

“January,” Harry says.

She sighs dramatically. “Mmm...oh, there it is. _Sex Criminals_ , issue eleven, out...the 29th. Next week.”

Cas’ ears perk up at the familiar title, and he grins down at the book he’s pretending to be absorbed in, which is something about a boy with antlers who really likes candy bars, apparently.

“Ha! He’s excited, too,” she says. There’s no response, so she continues. “Aren’t you, quiet guy near the back reading... _Sweet Tooth_?”

Cas’ eyes shoot up immediately, a blush rushing from his neck up his face, all the way to the tips of his ears. He closes the book and looks at the cover; sure enough, _Sweet Tooth_. Cas had just assumed that one of the other guys had made a face; he didn’t realize that they could see him.

“Oh. Uh, I guess so. My boyfriend loves it.”

The redhead laughs. “Your boyfriend’s got good taste. Tell him the next issue’s coming out next week.”

Cas forces a smile onto his face, reminding himself that she doesn’t know Dean won’t be able to read it.

“You’re not being a very good employee, Charlie,” the guy with the glasses, Ed, says. “Leaving this guy all alone to fend for himself out in the comic book wilderness.”

Charlie’s eyes widen slightly, and her cheeks turn red, a few shades lighter than her hair. “Jeez, I’m sorry,” she says. “D’you need any help with anything? I honestly didn’t even see you come in.”

Cas shrugs. “Your conversation was entertaining. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Ed glances at Cas and points at him. “Quick--Ant-Man or Squirrel-Hurl?”

Cas stares at him, his mouth opening more to gape than to actually provide Ed with an answer. “I, uh--” He’s saved, though, when Charlie throws her hoodie at Ed and clucks her tongue disapprovingly.

“Hey! No harassing my customers, Zeddmore. Also, ‘Squirrel-Hurl’? Seriously?”

Ed flips her off, but Cas can tell that it’s affectionate. He wonders how often he and Harry have been coming to this store, if they know Dean. “We’re gonna go get donuts,” he says, tossing the hoodie back over the counter.

“Don’t come back unless you’ve got a double-chocolate one for me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ed says as Harry returns _Wytches_ to its home on the shelf.

“I’m putting _Squirrel-Girl_ on your pull list, Ed!” she shouts good-naturedly as the guys head back onto the street, closing the door behind them. She grins before turning back to Cas with a friendly smile. “So, what can I help ya with?”

Cas puts _Sweet Tooth_ away before heading for the counter, the old wood floor creaking under his feet. “It’s actually something for my boyfriend. He used to come here a lot.”

Charlie’s eyes brighten. “Yeah? What’s his name?”

“Dean.”

This time, Charlie’s eyes widen, and if Cas had any doubts that he had come to the wrong comic shop, they were gone now. “Winchester?”

“Yes.”

“Shit,” she breathes. “How is he?”

Cas shrugs. “Okay. He’s training for the Marathon, actually.”

Charlie stares at him, then lets out a bewildered laugh. “The _Marathon_? _The_ Marathon? Yeah, I’d say he’s doing a little better than okay.” She looks down at the counter, which is etched with initials, and runs her finger across a couple of them. “I miss him, though. Wish he’d come back to hang out, he was always a lot of fun.”

Cas nods. “I think it would make him sad, to come back and know that he can’t read anymore. He was just telling me the other day how upset he is that he won’t know how that _Sex Criminals_ series will end.” Charlie laughs again at this, and Cas is prompted to continue. “But I was kind of hoping...I’m not sure if it’s possible, but I wanted to do something for him, and I thought maybe you could help me.”

Charlie quirks an eyebrow and leans forward on the counter, intrigued. “What’d you have in mind?”

Usually, Cas is embarrassed when he doesn’t know something people think he should, but in this case, it led to him and Dean having their first official date that doesn’t involve running.

“I can’t believe you live in Boston and had never been to the Middle East,” Dean says, shaking his head disappointedly as they walk hand-in-hand through the night toward Cas’ apartment. “That’s a goddamn tragedy.”

Cas’ face goes pink in the darkness, and he rolls his eyes, trying to forget the fact that earlier that night, when Dean had suggested they go see a comedian at the Middle East, Cas had thought he meant the area of the world, not the club in Cambridge. “You’re acting like I killed a puppy, Dean.”

“You might as well have!” Dean pouts, and Cas chuckles.

For the next few blocks, he’s content with their silence, nothing to hear except the occasional whoosh of a car rushing past or the click-clacking of Dean’s cane against the pavement. He feels at peace with it, something that would have make him incredibly anxious in any other situation, with any other person, would leave him scrambling for some topic of conversation to keep the silence at bay.

But Dean makes it okay. Even if he _is_ constantly haranguing Cas for his Middle East blunder.

“Seriously, we’re gonna have to go a lot more often to make up for lost time.”

Cas laughs before bumping Dean gently with his shoulder. “I think I can deal with that.”

They’re a few blocks away from Cas’ apartment when Cas sees a man heading toward them, looking frazzled and a little bit lost. He looks up and waves to get their attention, quickening his pace to get to them.

“Excuse me,” he says breathlessly, “I’m really sorry, but I was wondering if you guys could give me directions?”

Cas opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, the man slams hard into his side, and Cas is quick to register the fact that Dean’s hand is no longer in his. He looks up quickly to see a pair of hands dragging Dean into the alley they were in the process of passing. Before he can try to grab for Dean and get them out of there, he’s shoved repeatedly until he’s in the alley, too. Once they’re in the shadows, their attackers moves fast; Cas lets out a gasp as the man slams him up against a wall, and when he tries to squirm out of his attacker’s grip, he gets an elbow to the face for his troubles. He catches a glimpse of Dean trying to smack his attacker with his cane; the man grabs hold of it and wrenches it out of Dean’s hands, sending it clattering to the pavement and out of Dean’s reach.

Cas isn’t sure how many of them there are, at least two, but taking attendance is the least of his worries right now. He’s jerked forward and his arms are wrenched painfully behind his back, and all he can do is watch as the other man shoves Dean up against the opposite wall. Dean grunts as the man grips his jaw hard, holding him in place.

“Calm down, prettyboy. Nobody’s getting hurt tonight unless you give us a reason, got it?” With his free hand, the man holds up his middle finger in front of Dean’s face. “How many fingers?” The man holding Cas laughs, and Cas watches as Dean grits his teeth. “Let’s start with you, huh?” He runs his hand down Dean’s body, bending down until he locates Dean’s wallet in his back pocket. He fishes his hand inside, but before he can grab it, Dean lifts his knee and slams it up underneath the man’s chin.

The man stumbles backward, a hand clutching his face as he stares at Dean. “ _Fuck_!”

“Cas?” Dean takes a few steps forward, toward where he last heard Cas’ voice, but before he can get far, the man recovers and delivers a hard punch to Dean’s gut. He gasps and doubles over; before he can recover, the man punches him in the jaw and then shoves him up against the wall again. Dean’s knees buckle at the sudden pressure, and the man punches him once more before pinning him to the wall with an arm against his throat.

“Dean!” Cas tries to wrench himself away from the man holding him, but before he can, he feels an arm wraps around his neck. His eyes widen when he feels the cold metal of a gun pressed against his temple, and he swallows hard, trying--and failing--to quell the panic that’s rising in his gut.

“Listen up, asshole,” the man says quietly, pressing his arm harder against Dean’s throat. Dean tries to speak, but all that comes out is a strangled grunt, which just makes the man angrier. He smacks Dean once more before continuing, “Now, my friend here’s got a gun on your little boyfriend, and he’s gonna pull the trigger if you don’t behave, you understand me?”

As if to prove his friend’s point, the man holding Cas pulls the gun away and then smacks it hard across Cas’ face. Cas cries out in pain as the metal stings his skin, cringing when it’s placed back against his temple. He can see Dean stiffen, but he doesn’t try anything else, to Cas’ secret relief.

The man grins triumphantly, then resumes his extraction of Dean’s wallet; Dean’s hands clench into fists at his sides. The man flips open his wallet, and before grabbing the money and cards inside, he pulls out Dean’s driver’s license and studies it carefully.

“Ooh, a Wellesley boy,” he says, smirking. “What’cha doin’ out so far from home?” he asks, patting Dean hard on the cheek with the plastic card. He glances down at the license once more before tossing it haphazardly over his shoulder. “Won’t be needing that anymore.”

He digs through the rest of Dean’s wallet and grabs his cards and cash; Cas startles when he feels the other man do the same to him. Once his wallet is empty, the man tosses it aside and Cas can see him nod to the man holding Dean.

“Much obliged, kiddos,” he says, grinning as he releases Dean. “We’ll make sure your money goes to good use...especially yours, Helen Keller.” He snickers, then Cas feels the gun leave his head, and he rushes to Dean’s side as their muggers rush out of the alley and into the darkness of the street.

 

“I really think you should get some ice on your eye,” Cas says, digging through the freezer to try and find a few stray cubes. Dean is silent, has been ever since Cas helped him to his feet and they quickly made their way back to his apartment. “We’ll cancel our cards tonight, so they won’t be able to use them. I got a pretty good look at them, too, so we could go to the p--”

“Shut up, Cas.”

Cas pauses and turns around, staring at his boyfriend. Dean’s sitting on the couch, and his eyes are trained on the floor.

“Dean--”

“Stop.”

Cas takes a few steps forward and reaches out to place his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, what’re you--”

Dean swipes his hand away. “Leave me alone.”

“D--”

“You don’t get it.”

Cas hesitates. “Don’t get what?”

Dean leans forward suddenly, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “This was _my_ goddamn fault,” he says without moving. Cas stares at him, his heart sinking deep into his stomach.

“Dean, what’re--”

“You think this would’ve happened if I could _see_?” Dean snaps. He palms around for his cane before grabbing it and gripping it tightly in his hands, and Cas stays still. “I’m the weak one, and I tipped those assholes off with this piece of shit.” He takes the cane in one hand and hurls it across the apartment; Cas winces when he hears it clatter against a table lamp. “They would’ve kept going if I could see,” Dean says, defeat in his voice, painted across his face. “They would’ve left us alone. You got hurt because of me.”

Cas approaches hesitantly, trying to determine what Dean needs more of right now, comfort or space.

He decides on the former when he hears Dean weakly murmur, “I’m fucking...” His voice trails off after that and he shakes his head, but it's not hard for Cas to imagine the insults Dean is hurling at himself in his head, and he heads for the couch.

“Dean,” Cas says softly, sitting down beside Dean. “Hey, listen t--” He reaches for Dean’s hand only to have Dean try to jerk it away. “Dean!” Cas acts quickly and catches both of Dean’s wrists, holding them in front of him before gently turning his jaw to face him. Dean winces as Cas’ fingers brush against a fresh bruise.

Once they’re facing each other, Cas leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. “You are the furthest thing from useless.” Dean scoffs, and Cas holds his wrists tighter. “Those guys took advantage of you. They did, and you have every right to be upset and scared and angry. But you know what else you should be?”

“Dead,” Dean mutters, and Cas resists the urge to slap him.

“Proud of yourself,” he corrects.

“Cas, come on…”

“Stop it. Listen to me. You were outnumbered in a terrifying situation, but you didn’t let it affect you. You fought back, which is more than I did. You’re brave, Dean Winchester, one of the bravest people I know, and I’m not going to let you think that you’re not.”

Dean keeps his eyes down on his captured wrists, but Cas can feel his body starting to relax. Cas keeps their foreheads pressed together, staring up into the milky white and dull green of Dean’s eyes until Dean shifts and presses his face into Cas’ shoulder.

“Th’nks, Cas,” he mutters into the fabric of Cas’ shirt. Cas moves his hands so that his arms are wrapped around Dean, and that’s how he’ll stay, for as long as Dean needs him to.

It’s still dark when Cas wakes up, but there’s just enough light filtering in from the street lamp outside his window and the small night light in the hallway for Cas to see Dean’s sleeping form next to him. He cranes his neck to peek over Dean at the clock--he’s still got a few minutes before the alarm goes off, and he spends that time just...looking at Dean. He looks so peaceful and relaxed in sleep, his lips slightly parted, face twitching every so often in reaction to a dream. Cas smiles and leans in, presses a soft kiss to Dean’s lips. Dean hums a contented little sigh and snuggles closer to Cas, who closes his eyes and smiles up at the ceiling, wrapping his arm around Dean’s shoulders.

The alarm starts beeping right at five, and Cas chuckles at Dean’s groan as he rolls over to face away from Cas, grabs his pillow, and buries his head underneath it.

They had decided to take a few days off following the incident after coming home from the Middle East, and today is their first day back to their regular schedule. Cas grins as he turns off the alarm, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on his elbow as he studies his boyfriend’s defensive fuck-off-and-let-me-sleep-in posture.

“Dean,” he says gently, pressing a kiss to the back of Dean’s shoulder. “C’mon, you’ve got to get up. Twenty miles today, remember?”

Dean mumbles something that sounds roughly like “Fuck off” before burrowing deeper under the covers.

“I’ll make you some waffles when we’re done,” Cas says teasingly. “Waffles and bacon and sausage and home fries.”

Dean suddenly gets a burst of energy at the mention of his favorite breakfast foods, and tosses the pillow aside. “Really?” he asks, his fingers feeling around the floor before landing on the balled-up socks he had left there the night before.

Cas almost feels bad having to break his heart. Almost. “Nope.”

Dean freezes at that. He turns toward Cas, his mouth agape at this betrayal. “You heathen.”

He flops back down onto the bed and rolls over onto his back, an arm draped dramatically over his eyes. “God _damn_ it, I want bacon.”

“We can go out for all the bacon you want on April 19,” Cas says. “Promise. Now, come on. Twenty m _iiiiiii_ les,” he adds in a sing-song voice that he knows Dean hates.

“Need to shower,” Dean mumbles, rubbing at his non-bruised eye. Cas is pleased with how his other one is healing; the swelling had gone down considerably over the past few days, and if he really wanted to, Cas is sure Dean could brush it off to someone as him just being tired.

“You’re not going to wait until after we run?”

Dean laughs as he gets to his feet. Cas props himself up on one elbow and watches the way the muscles in Dean’s arms go taut as he clasps his hands behind his back and stretches his arms high above his head.

“Nothing wrong with two showers,” he says, and with that, he stands, leaving his cane propped against the bedside table and ghosting his hand along the wall, the chair, Cas’ overstuffed bookcase, before arriving at the bathroom door across from the bed. The door shuts behind him with a click, and Cas smiles to himself as he leans back against his pillow. Dean’s becoming familiar with his apartment now, familiar enough that he barely ever needs his cane to get around. Dean was in his bed last night, and for the past few nights. Dean’s in his shower right now, and later on--

Dean’s in his shower.

Cas sits up straight and stares at the bathroom door. “Dean?” he calls, but is almost definitely drowned out by the water. Swinging his legs off the bed, Cas pads across the cold wood floor and presses his ear against the door before knocking loudly. “Dean?”

“If you’ve gotta piss, Cas, you’re waiting til I’m done!” Dean shouts over the water.

“No, just a question.”

“What?”

“Does it hurt if shampoo gets in your eyes?”

There’s a long pause, and for a second, Cas wonders if Dean is actually trying it, right now, to give Cas an accurate answer. “Uh, yeah, dude, it sucks. Why?”

Cas looks down at his feet and smiles before shaking his head. “Just wondering.”


	6. Chapter 6

Soon enough, it’s Marathon Monday, and there’s only 26.2 miles between Dean and his bacon.

After a harried weekend filled with last-minute preparations and a trip to the John Hancock Sports and Fitness Expo to pick up their packets, which contain their bibs as well as at least a tree’s worth of paper with information about the race, Dean and Cas are crowded into one section of the Boston Common with thousands of other runners, waiting for the next available shuttle bus to get them to the starting line.

Cas is still half-asleep as he and Dean stand in line at the edge of the Common, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet in the chilly Boston morning. The stream of shuttle buses has been pretty consistent, but he and Dean have been waiting for well over an hour, and Cas is looking forward to a break from the cold, no matter how small it might be.

They wait for ten more minutes or so until another bus rolls up, and Cas nudges Dean, grabbing his hand as they start to edge forward. “I think we’ll be able to get on this one,” he says softly, and Dean pumps his fist.

“Fucking _finally_.”

Sure enough, they’re admitted onto the bus, and Cas sighs in relief at the small burst of warm air from the heater that hits his face as they enter.

“Railing on your left, four steps,” Cas mumbles as they approach the steps, “first one is here now.”

Dean takes all four steps without a problem. Cas is surprised at how second-nature directing Dean has become; he doesn’t even have to think about doing it now, and doesn’t really remember the last time he had to.

“Turn to the side,” Cas says, taking Dean’s wrist gently and leading him forward, searching for an empty pair of seats. The bus is about three-quarters full, and some runners glance up to take in the new arrivals with a small smile, but most keep their eyes down, keyed into whatever pre-run routine they’ve decided on. Cas finally finds two empty seats near the back and claims them. Once they’re seated, Dean holds out his hand wordlessly; Cas takes it, and feels the same warmth in his chest as he did when they first inadvertently held hands in the Impala.

They don’t have to wait long for the bus to start moving; about five minutes later, the doors close and the driver pulls away from the Common to make room for more shuttle buses, slowly maneuvering through the winding Boston streets.

Cas gazes out the window, watching as they start to leave the city behind for Hopkinton, the suburb where the race will begin. His mind wanders, and he starts thinking back to earlier that morning, shortly after he and Dean had stumbled out of bed and were getting ready for the day they’d spent the last few months preparing for.

_“Number 94937,” Cas says, carefully securing Dean’s bib to the front of his pale blue shirt with safety pins. The bib is a bright neon yellow with BLIND printed across the top; Cas has a matching one that says GUIDE. After ensuring that the bib is on straight, Cas starts fastening the bottom corners, as well._

_“Better not be putting it on upside down,” Dean grumbles, his face still laced with sleep as he rubs at his eyes._

_Cas chuckles softly. “You’d kill me if it was upside down, and I value my life too much for a practical joke.”_

_“Glad we understand each other.” Dean is trying to sound sarcastic, lighthearted, but Cas catches the undertones of nerves lacing his boyfriend’s voice, and he takes Dean’s cheek in his hand._

_“You’re going to do great, Dean.”_

_“You’re supposed to say that.”_

_“I can say whatever I want. And I want to say you’re going to do great, because it’s the truth.” He smiles when he feels the muscles of Dean’s face lift into a smile, as well. “I’m going to get my bib on, and then we can leave, okay? We can’t be late for the buses, or there’s no way we’re getting to Hopkinton.”_

_Dean nods, and Cas is about to let go of Dean and head for the kitchen counter where his bib is lying, when he feels Dean reach for his hand and hold him there._

_“Thank you,” he says. “I don’t...there’s no one else I would want to do this with. So just...thank you, Cas.”_

_Cas looks at his boyfriend, replays the words that just left his mouth, and before he can think about it, blurts out, “I love you, Dean.”_

_He wants to clap his hand over his mouth, scoop up all those words and make Dean un-hear them, especially when Dean opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything in response._

_“I--Dean, I’m sorry, you don’t--”_

_Dean’s face suddenly breaks into that crooked grin that Cas loves so goddamn much, and he grabs Cas’ hand tighter. “Love you, too, Cas.”_

Back on the bus, Cas squeezes Dean’s hand, and Dean gives him a soft smile before squeezing back. “How are you feeling?” he asks, and Dean shrugs.

“Nervous. Excited. But mostly nervous. Not like, so-nervous-I’m-gonna-puke, though, so I’ve got that going for me.”

Cas laughs. “Well, that’s good.”

There’s a sudden burst of excited chatter, and Cas cranes his neck to see in front of them. The blue and yellow sign for Athletes’ Village comes into view, and Cas nudges Dean gently.

“We’re here.”

Dean looks up, then grins at Cas. “Let’s kick it in the ass.”

 

Cas thought the Common was crowded while they were waiting for the buses, but Athletes’ Village is _insane_. It’s like Coachella, but for runners: tens of thousands of runners are milling around, getting massages, chatting with one another. Vendors are handing out free snacks and drinks in an effort to make sure each and every one of them is taken care of to their best of their ability before the race begins.

Cas takes a few deep breaths, trying to tamp down his anxiety as he and Dean make their way through the throngs of runners. Loud, upbeat music is pumped through speakers, oftentimes fading out and replaced with tips, prep suggestions, and weather updates.

“Hey,” Dean says, nudging against Cas’ shoulder. “Don’t let me get lost in this, okay?”

Cas laughs. “I’ll make sure not to.”

They’ve been drinking water and munching on energy bars for the last couple of hours when their starting corral is finally announced over the loudspeaker. Dean turns to Cas, stuffing the last of his energy bar into his mouth, and smiles, his cheeks puffing out.

“Ready?” he mumbles, holding out his hand.

Cas takes it and smiles back as they get to their feet. “Ready.”

  

Nearly an hour after “The Star-Spangled Banner” played and the starting gun went off, Cas and Dean are still in their corral, but are finally almost to the starting line. As they wait, Cas glances down and sees Dean bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation, fingers playing anxiously with the rope between them. Dean must feel him staring, because he nudges Cas and asks, "You ready?" most likely in an attempt to deflect the attention away from himself.

And Cas isn't lying when he says, "Yes."

The runners waiting anxiously in front of them, bouncing from foot to foot, trying to expel some nervous energy, start to move forward slowly until the starting line comes into view.

"I can see it," Cas tells Dean. "We're almost at the starting line; get ready."

The blue and gold line painted across the asphalt is suddenly under their feet. Cas takes a deep breath. “Let’s go,” he says.

And they start running.

Cas feels surprisingly calm, even with the tens of thousands of runners packed in around him and Dean, cheers and shouts already coming from the crowds of people lining the route.

"Can you hear me?" Cas shouts over the noise, and Dean nods.

As the race starts to kick into gear, other runners begin to stream past them, which Cas is grateful for; it cuts down on the noise, even if it's just slightly, and gives him and Dean a little extra room to move around.

Other runners stream around them and start picking up their paces, darting away down Hopkinton’s Main Street. They seem to be doing okay during this straight shot, though, until he feels Dean stumble against him and hears him mutter, “Son of a bitch.”

“Okay?” Cas asks quickly as Dean rights himself.

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs, but Cas realizes quickly that’s not exactly the case when another runner bumps into Dean, who stumbles again. His heart sinks as he realizes that this is it, this is where he has to start yelling.

So he does.

“Blind runner coming through!”

Cas feels like Moses parting the Red Sea--runners take notice of them, and give them space. Nobody yells at him or gives him a dirty look like he’d spent the weeks before the race fearing; they just listen to him, and they move. Some of them even let out an energetic cheer as they pass, which Dean returns tenfold. Cas is about to smile like he normally does, but instead, he finds himself laughing before sending an encouraging whoop out to nobody in particular. He feels a quick jerk on the rope and looks at Dean, who’s beaming at him.

“There ya go, Cas!” he yells, then throws his head back and lets out one more excited yell as they run. Cas’ heart surges, and not just from the exertion now, as he and Dean begin to make their way through the course.

They keep a steady pace through the first few miles, letting the cheers and music spur them on whenever they started to lose some stamina. About seven miles in, Cas notices a Dairy Queen, and laughs to himself as he pictures him and Dean inhaling Reese’s peanut butter cup Blizzards.

“Guess what we just passed?”

Dean takes a few more breaths before asking, “What?”

“A Dairy Queen.”

“Aw, come on, Cas!”

“Just think,” Cas continues, “hot dogs and French fries and Blizzards. All for us!” He pauses to take a few breaths, then adds, “Fourteen miles from now, of course.”

Dean groans. “Oh, fuck you.”

 

They go back and forth between talking and just focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, letting the cheers and screams soundtrack their run. Aside from a short rest where Dean needed to grab some water and wait for his lightheadedness to pass, their run has been passing with relatively no incidents, and Cas is pleasantly surprised. He hasn’t accidentally run Dean into a tree, or inadvertently caused him to trip himself up in a pothole or anything. The roads have been well taken care of; they’re smooth and flat, not a rogue mailbox or recycling bin in sight.

Things are going well, until Cas feels Dean startle a little around mile twelve, when the screaming seems to get ten times louder than normal.

“Jesus!” he yells. “What the hell is that?”

Cas pauses. At first, he’s not at all sure what it is, but then his nights doing research on the Marathon pop back into his head, and he grins. “The Scream Tunnel!”

“The _what_?”

Cas opens his mouth to explain, but then just shakes his head. “The girls from Wellesley! They’re excited to see us!”

They’re getting ready to pass Wellesley College, which is known as two things--the halfway point of the race, and the Scream Tunnel. Every student at Wellesley spends the Marathon lining the section of the course that passes their school, screaming words of encouragement and cheering runners on. The women are so loud and rambunctious that they’ve collectively earned the nickname of the Scream Tunnel, and Cas and Dean are about to go through it.

As the students and other spectators come into view, Cas squints at them, then laughs. “They have signs!”

“For us?”

“For everybody!”

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Read ‘em to me!”

“‘Go random stranger.’ Uh…oh, ‘We think you’re wicked awesome.’ ‘Those shorts make your butt look fast.’”

Dean cackles at that one, and Cas smiles before continuing. “‘Kiss me, I’m from New York City.’” He doesn’t realize what he just read until it’s out of his mouth, though, and he quickly adds, “Don’t listen to that one.”

Dean laughs again. “Wasn’t planning on it,” he assures Cas.

Cas squints to read one more sign in particular, this one scrawled out in bright red marker. Once he’s read it, his cheeks get even more flushed than they already are. “Oh.”

“What?”

“I...we just passed one that said, ‘It’s hot, but so are you.’”

Dean bursts into laughter at that and lets out a cheer. “Thank _you_ , ladies!”

Cas smiles. “Move a little to your right,” he says. “They’re giving out high fives.”

Dean’s face brightens and he scoots over quickly, holding out his free hand. The girls cheer wildly, and Cas smiles, wishing he had some way to record the joy and excitement on Dean’s face as his open palm is smacked by as many girls as possible.

Wellesley College has officially become his new favorite place.

 

"Water stop coming up," Cas says, craning his neck to better estimate how close they are to the volunteers lining the street in their bright orange jackets, cheering and offering small Dixie cups half-full of water. "You good?"

Dean takes a few seconds to try and steady his breathing before shaking his head. "Get me some."

"Move a little to your right…good, good, good," Cas says, trying to line himself up as close as possible to a volunteer with long blonde hair and a wide smile. As they approach, she starts cheering specifically for them.

"Keep going, guys, you've got this! Go, go, go!"

Cas grabs a cup from her and glances down at his feet; the ground is littered with disposed paper cups, an inadvertent obstacle course for him and Dean. "Paper cups on the ground," he rasps, "but you can step on them. They shouldn't be an issue."

Dean nods just as he crushes a cup underfoot, then holds out his hand for the water cup.

"Give me ten seconds for us to get out of here." They make their way through the minefield of cups and once things are relatively clear, Cas adds, "You're good."

"Slow down for a couple seconds," Dean says, holding his hand out. Cas' fingers brush Dean's as he passes him the cup, and Cas slows down their pace to something just faster than a walk, watching as Dean tilts his head back and gulps down the water. His neck is bared, and Cas stares as Dean's Adam's apple bobs when he swallows.

He doesn't realize they're coming up fast on some slower runners until they're practically on top of each other.

"Blind runner!" he yelps. "Blind runner coming through!"

The runners in front of them startle like a couple of pigeons and immediately veer off to the side. Cas calls out a hurried thank you, and he hears Dean laugh.

Cas grins at him. "Feeling better?"

"Mhmm. Ready?"

“Always.”

 

They spend a few minutes walking around mile nineteen, but then Cas realizes where they are in the race.

“Dean,” he says, “we’re almost to the Hill.”

Dean turns his head and spits before muttering, “Fuck,” and that’s exactly how Cas feels. While not exactly an intimidating hill on its own--in fact, it’s basically the opposite--Heartbreak Hill is practically like scaling a mountain to runners who have already banked twenty miles before reaching it, and it’s no different for Dean and Cas. Exhaustion is beginning to hit Cas hard, his chest is aching and his legs feel like they’re made of lead, and he can tell that Dean’s on the verge of hitting a wall, as well. Maybe they shouldn’t have stopped running; Cas’ stomach twists uncomfortably as he thinks about picking up the pace, but Dean tugs on the rope between them, making his thoughts on the matter clear.

“Let’s go,” he says, and starts the countdown until they start running again. “Five, four, three…”

Cas’ body is screaming at him, begging him to stop and rest, but Cas shoves the thoughts to the back of his mind as they slog up the Hill.

“Is your heart broken yet?” Dean rasps, and Cas laughs.

“Not even close.”

Dean grins, and Cas wishes that Dean wasn’t wearing his sunglasses so that he could see those eye crinkles once more.

After what feels like an eternity, they finally reach the top of the Hill, and Cas catches a glimpse of the Prudential Center, still far away, looming over them. There’s a band playing off to the side, their enthusiastic marching band music blending in with the constant cheers and whoops and clanging of cowbells, and Cas finds his lips curling into a smile again.

“We’re going down,” he says, “get ready.” They pound the pavement as they go, the shocks resonating up Cas’ legs as his sneaks smack against the downward slanting road. When he glances up at the Prudential again, he looks at Dean, who’s focused straight ahead, chewing determinedly on his lower lip to try and combat his exhaustion. “Hey,” he says, nudging Dean gently, just enough to get his attention. He didn’t want to be the cause of Dean tripping and eating shit in front of thousands of people; Dean would never forgive him. “We made it. We didn’t have to stop.”

Dean releases another few breaths, and Cas notices the smile that creeps onto his face, as well. “Fuck you, Heartbreak Hill.”

 

Cas licks his lips and works to get his breathing back under control as they pass the CITGO sign near Fenway Park. That gigantic square sign serves as a beacon for them and the rest of the runners, signaling that they’re almost done, that much closer to rest and food and celebrations and beer.

“We’re passing the CITGO sign,” Cas says, pushing past the cement-like feeling in his legs. They’ve slowed to a bit of a trot now, but Dean has been adamant about not walking anymore until after they’ve crossed the finish line.

Dean laughs breathlessly. “Wanna stop for a Sox game, Cas?” he pants, swallowing hard.

“Not sure we have time for that.”

 

Cas had been ready for the exhaustion, the sore muscles and screaming tendons and stitches in his side, but the one thing that Cas really isn’t prepared for, though, is the cheering. Tens of thousands of people have lined all 26.2 miles of the course, camped out hours in advance to get a good spot, and are cheering him and Dean on. They don’t know them, will probably never see them again, but they still want to see them finish and achieve what they set out to do, and Cas suddenly reverses his opinion that running is a solitary activity.

There’s a hard left turn coming up, and Cas does a quick calculation of how many steps they have until they hit it. “Left turn!” he shouts over the screams and music and cheering. “Six, five, four…”

He and Dean make the turn smoothly, and Dean lets out a little yelp of excitement. “ _Yes_!”

Cas laughs, but then he’s quick to notice the Boston Public Library coming up fast, looming high above the crowds and bleachers and banners, and it hits him like a punch to the gut.

They’re almost there.

Cas squints past all the runners in front of them, and after a few hundred yards, he can see the finish line. He wants to start smacking Dean with excitement, to draw his attention to the fact that they’re actually going to _do it_ , they’re going to finish this thing, but he settles on a tiny tug on their rope instead.

“Dean,” he shouts above the cheers and music and yelling. “Dean! I can see the finish line. We’re almost there.”

He can practically hear the breath catch in Dean’s throat, and he wants to stop in the middle of the race and just hug him as hard as he can, but he decides to wait another hundred feet before doing so.

Apparently Dean is on the same page, because he bursts forward with a sudden jolt of energy, taking Cas by surprise and causing him to frantically try and catch up while also alerting other runners to their presence.

“Blind runner coming through! To your left! To your left!” A particularly bony runner narrowly avoids smacking Dean in the face with her elbow, and Dean plows forward with Cas right next to him. When he’s sure that they have a clear path, Cas keeps his eyes trained on the ground, and he starts to count out the steps they have left.

“Seven,” he shouts over the crowd. “Seven steps, Dean!”

His legs are on fire, his chest is heaving, and he’s sure he’s never sweated this much in his life, but as they approach the finish line, all those feelings are replaced by the growing ball of excitement and disbelief in his gut. The cheers and screams and music around them fade to a dull, incoherent roar, and all Cas is aware of is Dean next to him, and before he knows it, the finish line is behind them.

That’s it.

They did it.

“ _Dean_!” he yells, snapping out of whatever trance-like state he had been in to pull to a complete stop off to the side, forcing Dean to do so, as well. “Dean, we did it!” Before Dean can react, Cas pulls him into a desperate hug and squeezes him tightly, thrilled at the fact that Dean hugs him just as tight. They stand there for a few seconds, frozen in the embrace, and Cas gently tilts Dean’s head up to plant a kiss on his lips.

“Holy shit,” Dean murmurs against his lips. “Holy fucking shit.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Cas says. “You did it. You kicked it in the ass.”

Dean pulls back and holds Cas’ hands. “I love you,” he says suddenly, looking almost as surprised by the words as Cas does. “So fucking much, Cas.”

Cas beams and replies, “I love you, too,” before pulling Dean into another embrace punctuated with cheers and applause from the entire city of Boston.

 

About a half hour later, once they’ve gotten their medals and Gatorade--which Dean downs in a solid fifteen seconds--Sam and Anna find them off near the gigantic water station for the runners to start recuperating and rehydrating themselves. Cas hears Anna’s excited squeal before he sees her, and within seconds, she’s pounced on him, wrapping him in a tight hug.

“I’m so _proud_ of you, Castiel!”

“Thank you, Anna,” he says, and studies her for a few seconds before adding, “For everything.”

She beams at him, and they turn to watch Dean and Sam embracing a few feet away. They pull back and Sam claps a hand on Dean’s shoulder before saying something else, and Dean grins. Sam notices them, then, and hooks his arm for Dean to grasp before they head over.

“Congrats, Cas!” he says excitedly, embracing Cas as Anna does the same to Dean. “He’s so happy, dude,” he adds softly before breaking the hug.

“I’m glad,” Cas says, smiling. Sam grins, too, before glancing down at a small wrapped package in his hands. Cas recognizes it and his stomach floods with relief as he thinks back to the day before, when he had given it to Sam after coming to pick up Dean at their house.

_“Sam, can you do me a favor?” Cas asks, running his thumb over the thin package in his hands. Dean has gone to feed Jack and Rudy, so it’s just him and Sam sitting in the living room._

_“Sure, Cas.” Sam is sprawled out on the recliner, his posture the definition of calm and relaxed. “What’s up?”_

_“Could you, um, could you make sure to bring this to the race tomorrow?” He holds out the package, and Sam looks at him curiously. “It’s a present for Dean. I wanted to give it to him at the finish line.”_

_Sam runs a hand through his hair. “You already thinking of becoming my brother-in-law, Cas?”_

_Cas’ eyes widen. “What? I…”_ It’d be nice, _he thinks,_ eventually. _“It’s not a ring,” he finally stammers, and Sam laughs._

_“I’m just kidding, dude. Of course I’ll bring it.” He holds his hand out, and Cas gives him the present. “But just so you know, I don’t think Dean would be averse to getting a ring from you sometime,” he adds with a wink, and Cas averts his eyes, his cheeks going bright red. “What is it?”_

_Cas smiles before looking back up at the younger Winchester. “A surprise.”_

“You remembered,” Cas says, taking the gift from Sam.

“You don’t understand how hard it was for me to not open this, then rewrap it just to see what it was,” he says, and Cas laughs.

“I appreciate your restraint.”

“Now give it to him, before I die of anticipation.”

Cas takes the package and walks over to Dean, who’s being congratulated by Anna. She notices him and takes a few steps back, tapping Dean on the shoulder.

“I think Cas wants to talk to you,” she says, and Dean turns around.

“I think Anna’s right,” Cas says, giving Dean another kiss before sliding the gift into Dean’s hands.

Dean wrinkles his nose. “Cas, what--”

“Open it,” Cas says.

“I won’t be able to s--”

“Please, Dean.”

Dean looks skeptical, but he slowly tears open the paper, Cas’ heart hammering against his ribcage the whole time. When all the paper is torn away, Cas can feel Anna and Sam crowd in around them, looking at the blank white booklet in Dean’s hands.

“I…” Dean’s voice trails off when he feels the raised dots on the thin, glossy comic-book-style paper, specially ordered by Charlie shortly after Cas had visited her at Hub. Everything they had worked on for the past few weeks is in Dean’s hands now, and as Dean’s fingers trace over the braille, Cas knows he did a good job.

He had explained to Charlie Dean’s disappointment at not being able to read comics anymore, and asked if she had any ideas on how--or if it was even possible--to create a comic for a blind person to read. After some extensive googling, they had found an example of a comic called “Life,” created by Philipp Meyer, that told a simple story of two people falling in love and having a child. He had made each person represented by their own unique circle of braille dots, and even included panels, adding to the feeling of a comic book.

So, Cas and Charlie decided to use that for inspiration, and made one for Dean.

Cas watches as Dean’s fingers trace over Cas’ circle--just a regular one--and then his own--a circle with a line going across it, near the top, to symbolize his sunglasses--before feeling the description at the bottom.

“Dean and Cas meet, and don’t get along at first.” Dean chuckles, then moves to the next panel. “They run together, and start learning about each other.”

Their little circles run across the panel together, and Cas’ heart swells as he watches Dean run his fingers over them over and over again, two, three times. He turns the pages slowly, going through their story until they end up where the are right now, the two circles combined into one, with the caption, “Cas loves Dean, and is proud of him, and will always be there for him.”

Dean closes the comic and bites his lower lip and quickly swipes his hand underneath his sunglasses before looking down at the book again.

“Goddamn it, Cas,” he mutters. He grins and shakes his head. “How the fuck am I supposed to top this, you asshole?”

“Aw, you crying, Dean?” Sam asks, smirking. Cas is sure that he doesn’t know what the book says--they’ll have to explain it to him later--but he smiles anyway.

“Fuck you, Sammy,” Dean says, flipping off his little brother, and Sam laughs.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Anna says, ushering Cas and Dean together. “Let me take a picture.”

Dean holds his hand out and Cas threads his fingers through Dean’s, smiling as Dean squeezes his hand before flinging his arm across Cas’ shoulders and pulling him close. He nuzzles his nose against Cas’ jaw before planting a kiss on his cheek.

“I’m glad I met you,” he breathes, loud enough for only Cas to hear.

“Me, too,” Cas says.

“Okay, ready?” Anna asks. Dean turns toward her voice and smiles wide, and Cas does the same thing.

Cas hears that familiar tap-tap-tapping across the wooden floor, and he looks down at the photo in his hands once more.

“Cas?” Dean asks softly.

“Here.” Cas stays still, waiting until he feels Dean behind him. Dean wraps his arms around Cas’ waist and rests his chin on Cas’ shoulder before planting a soft kiss on his neck.

“What’re you doing?”

“Nothing,” Cas says.

Dean pauses. “You’re looking at that picture again, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Cas smiles as he feels Dean’s face form into a smile of its own.

“Describe it to me.”

“Dean, I’ve done that at least ten times, you know what it l--”

“Describe it to me, Cas.”

And Cas describes it to him. As he goes into detail about the bright sunshine, their wide smiles, the way you can see Anna and Sam reflected in the lenses of Dean’s sunglasses, and just how goddamn _happy_ they both look, Cas thinks back to that one phone call from Anna nearly four months ago.

He’s so glad that she asked him for a favor.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading my little story; I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Run Boy Run [ART]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5205065) by [DomLerrys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DomLerrys/pseuds/DomLerrys)




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